The biker didn’t flinch. He didn’t drop her. He just stopped walking and looked at me with the most tired eyes I had ever seen on a human being.
“Sir,” he said. “Put that down and help me get her into my truck. She doesn’t have long.”
Something in his voice made my arm freeze in the air.
That’s when I saw his cut clearly under the porch light. Not a motorcycle club patch. A patch that read VETERAN COMBAT MEDIC. Next to it, a small pink ribbon with a name stitched underneath.
Maggie.
I looked down at my daughter’s face. Her lips were blue. White foam crusted at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes were half open and rolled back.
She wasn’t drunk. She was dying.
“What did they do to her?” I whispered.
The biker didn’t answer. He walked past me toward a beat-up Ford truck at the curb. I followed like I was in a dream. The crowbar dropped somewhere on the grass.
“Get in the back with her,” he said. “Keep her head turned to the side. If she throws up she chokes.”
