Then fell.
Not dramatically.
His knees simply folded.
He landed in the snow near the edge of the parking lot.
Lily gasped.
“He fell.”
The truck driver stood.
“Could be drunk.”
The cook looked through the service window.
“In this weather?”
“Could be anything.”
The diner owner moved toward the front door, then stopped.
“What club is that?”
The truck driver squinted.
“Can’t tell.”
Lily looked at them.
“He’s cold.”
Her mother answered quietly.
“I know, baby.”
Nobody moved.
Lily waited.
One second.
Two.
Five.
She looked at the man outside again.
Snow was already gathering across his back.
“Mom.”
Her mother grabbed a coat.
“All right.”
The diner owner stepped in front of her.
“Hold on.”
She stared.
“What?”
“You don’t know who he is.”
“I know he’s lying in snow.”
“I’m saying we should be careful.”
The truck driver nodded.
“Call emergency services.”
The cook already had.
No ambulance could reach them quickly.
A rescue truck was responding from twenty miles east.
Estimated time at least forty-five minutes.
Lily listened.
Forty-five minutes.
She looked outside.
The man was no longer moving.
Her mother headed toward the door again.
The diner owner caught her arm.
“I’m not saying leave him there.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“Give me a second.”
That was the problem.
Everyone wanted another second.
Lily did not understand why.
She slipped beneath the diner owner’s arm.
Reached the deadbolt.
Turned it.
The wind ripped the door from her hands.
Snow exploded inside.
“Lily!”
Her mother grabbed her coat.
The truck driver rushed forward to control the door.
Lily pointed.
“We have to get him.”
Her mother stared at her daughter.
Then at the biker.
Decision made.
“Blankets.”
The cook moved first.
So did the truck driver.
Within seconds, the hesitation broke.
Lily’s mother and the truck driver ran into the storm carrying a wool blanket.
The college students held the door.
The cook brought another blanket.
The biker was conscious when they reached him.
Barely.
His lips had lost color.
His hands shook violently.
He tried standing.
The truck driver caught his arm.
“Easy.”
The biker looked toward the diner.
“Bike.”
“Forget the bike.”
“Need…”
“Your bike isn’t going anywhere.”
They helped him inside.
The warmth hit him almost visibly.
He stumbled.
The truck driver and Lily’s mother guided him toward the nearest booth.
Lily stood beside the counter watching.
The man looked even larger indoors.
Six feet three, maybe more.
Broad shoulders.
Heavy boots.
Thick leather.
Age somewhere around sixty.
A scar ran from his left eyebrow into the silver-gray hair at his temple.
His vest carried several patches.