The men dispersed.
Casually.
Hank remained near his motorcycle.
The girl had understood something important.
The safest help was help that did not announce itself too early.
He would respect that.
Across the road, the woman opened the truck passenger door.
The girl stopped.
Said something.
The woman became angry.
Hank could not hear.
The girl pointed toward the portable toilets.
The woman shook her head.
The child crossed both legs theatrically.
Apparently needing the bathroom.
The woman finally released her.
Hank almost smiled.
Smart kid.
The girl walked toward the row of portable toilets near the motel.
The woman followed three steps behind.
One of Hank’s brothers drifted closer.
Not enough to be obvious.
The girl disappeared inside.
The woman waited outside.
Hank checked the road.
No police yet.
One minute.
Two.
The woman knocked on the plastic door.
Nothing.
Again.
The door opened.
The child came out.
The cast was different.
There was more writing.
Hank’s heart jumped.
She had added something inside the toilet.
The woman did not notice.
They returned toward the pickup.
The girl held the cast awkwardly against her chest.
Hank could not read it.
The truck passenger door opened again.
The child climbed inside.
The woman went around to the driver's side.
The Older Biker walked past carrying lemonade.
He looked through the passenger window once.
Then continued.
When he reached Hank, he said:
“Kid showed me the cast.”
“What now?”
“Two letters.”
Hank waited.
“NO.”
Hank frowned.
“No what?”
“Just N-O.”
The woman started the truck.
Hank’s brain worked.
HELP.
OM.
NO.
Maybe the extra letters completed something.
He tried possible meanings.
HELP.
ROOM 18.
There.
The names Otis and Mack gave O-M.
Missing R-O.
Maybe names above or hidden elsewhere.
ROOM 18.
And NO.
The child was encoding more information in fragments because she could not openly write sentences.
Hank asked:
“Could it say ‘not mom’?”
The Older Biker stared.
“NO…”
“Maybe she didn't have room.”
The pickup reversed.
Hank's pulse accelerated.
A patrol car appeared at the far entrance of the rally.
Then got trapped behind pedestrians.
Hank raised his phone.
Called the dispatcher again.
“They’re moving.”
The rust-red pickup pulled toward the highway.
The officer still could not reach them.
“License plate?”
Hank read it.
The truck stopped at the road.
Traffic.
Good.
The girl turned her head.
Through the passenger window, she looked directly toward the bikes.
Hank lifted one hand.