The first thing the Biker Leader noticed about the little girl was not the cast.
It was the way she looked over her shoulder before asking her question.
The motorcycle rally stretched across several dusty acres outside Sturgis, filling the South Dakota afternoon with engine noise, music, fried food, beer tents, leather jackets, chrome, and thousands of people moving in every direction.
The Biker Leader had attended enough rallies that the noise had become background.
He could carry on a conversation beside twelve idling motorcycles without raising his voice.
He could distinguish one of his club brothers starting a bike from fifty yards away.
He could sleep through exhaust pipes rattling motel windows.
But children were different.
Children did not usually approach their group.
Parents sometimes pulled them away.
Other times, curious kids stared from behind adults until one biker waved.
This girl walked straight toward them.
Nine years old.
Maybe ten.
Shoulder-length light-brown hair.
Faded blue T-shirt.
Denim shorts.
Black canvas shoes covered in dust.
Her right forearm was trapped inside a thick white plaster cast stretching from just below the elbow to the base of her fingers.
She held a black permanent marker in her left hand.
The cast already contained several signatures.
At first, the Biker Leader assumed that was why she had come.
Motorcycle rallies were full of kids collecting autographs from riders whose patches or custom bikes impressed them.
The Young Biker beside him saw her approaching and smiled.
“Looks like we got a customer.”
The girl stopped.
Not in front of the Young Biker.
In front of the whole group.
She studied the vests.
Then their faces.
Then looked behind herself again.
The Biker Leader followed her glance.
A woman stood roughly twenty yards away near a beer tent.
Cheap sunglasses.
Tight denim jacket despite the heat.
Dark jeans.
One hand gripping a large purse.
The woman watched the girl intensely.
The Biker Leader looked back at the child.
The little girl lifted the marker.
“What’s your road name?”
The Young Biker laughed.
“Mine?”
She examined him.
Something in her expression changed.
“No.”
The Young Biker blinked.
Several men laughed.
“Damn, brother.”
“Rejected by a fourth-grader.”
The Young Biker smiled.
“Fair enough.”
Another biker stepped forward.
Large red beard.
Road name Eagle stitched beneath one pocket.
“How about mine?”
The girl looked directly at the patch.
Then at her cast.
Her breathing changed.
Subtle.
The Biker Leader noticed.
She held out her arm.
“Can you write it here?”
She pointed near the upper section of plaster.
The red-bearded biker took the marker.
“Sure.”
He wrote Eagle.
The girl watched every stroke.
“Thank you.”
The biker handed the marker back.
The girl immediately turned toward another man.
“What’s yours?”
“Leo.”
Her eyes flickered.
“Yes.”
Leo laughed.
“That enthusiastic, huh?”
She pointed lower down the cast.
“Right there.”
He signed.
Then another.
The girl moved through the group strangely.
She rejected some road names immediately.
Accepted others.
Not based on the biker.
Not based on the bike.
The Biker Leader realized she was listening for something.
Letters.
Before he understood why, the woman from the beer tent arrived.
Her hand came down hard on the girl’s shoulder.
“There you are.”
The child stiffened.
Instantly.
The Biker Leader’s attention sharpened.
The woman smiled at the men.