He crashed sideways into the gravel.
Two down.
Four standing.
Brody turned toward her.
The pipe wrench came swinging.
Casey ducked.
The wrench passed so close to her ear that she felt the air move.
She looped the chain around Brody's wrist.
Pulled.
The wrench fell.
Brody stared at his empty hand.
Then something happened behind Casey.
The old man was standing.
The Man Who Wasn't Helpless
The old man came off the pavement like a spring releasing from a trap.
His bad knee screamed.
He ignored it.
He swept one of the attackers off his feet with a single practiced movement.
The young man hit the pavement hard.
Jesse stopped.
For the first time that night, the confidence disappeared from his face.
He looked into the old man's eyes.
Whatever he saw there made him step backward.
The old man moved beside Casey.
One heavy hand settled on her shoulder.
He placed himself between her and the remaining attackers.
His voice was calm.
Almost frighteningly calm.
“Walk away while you still can.”
Brody looked at him.
Then at Casey.
Then at the others.
Something inside him finally recognized what his anger had refused to see.
They had picked the wrong people.
He turned and ran.
The others followed.
A Chevy engine roared.
Tires screamed against the asphalt.
Within seconds, they were gone.
The entire fight had lasted eight seconds.
Casey stood still.
One breath.
Two.
Then her knees gave out.
She dropped onto the curb.
The bicycle chain was still tangled around her shaking fingers.
Her left forearm had already turned purple.
The old man crouched beside her.
His knees cracked.
He didn't look at her face.
He looked at her hands.
Grease under the nails.
An adjustable wrench sticking out of her back pocket.
A worn leather wallet lying nearby.
Then he pulled a folded blue bandana from inside his vest.
He wrapped it around her injured arm.
His hands moved with the confidence of someone who had done this many times.
“What’s your name?”
“Casey.”
“Why'd you do that, Casey?”
She looked down at the pavement.
For a moment, she didn't know how to answer.
Then she shrugged.
“Nobody else was going to.”
The old man stared at her.
Behind them, the fading sunlight illuminated a weathered mural on the gas station wall.
A winged motorcycle wheel.
And beneath it, a name:
Doyle Custom Cycles.
Casey had no idea what that name meant.
Not yet.
To understand it, she needed to understand where this night had begun.
The Twenty-Dollar Bill
Three days earlier, the kitchen light in the Marlo house had been on before sunrise.
Eleanor Marlo sat at the counter checking her blood sugar.
She looked at the number on the meter.
Then she wrote it in a small notebook.
She closed the notebook.
Casey walked into the kitchen.
She kissed her grandmother on the top of the head.
“Morning.”
“Morning, baby.”
Casey opened the refrigerator.
There wasn't much inside.
She counted the money in her wallet.
Forty-one dollars and some change.
Then she looked at the rent jar.
Without thinking, she pulled a twenty-dollar bill from her wallet and slipped it between the other bills.
She was almost out the door when Eleanor spoke.
“Casey.”
She stopped.
Her grandmother stood in the doorway.
She wasn't angry.
She looked sad.
“Bring that back.”
“Grandma…”
“Bring it back, baby.”
Casey walked back.