The second man reached toward the handlebars.
“Don't touch it.”
He shoved her.
Rebecca swung the tire bar.
The iron struck his forearm.
He screamed.
The smile vanished from the other man's face.
He reached into his jacket.
A knife appeared.
Rebecca's heart stopped.
She suddenly remembered exactly how young she was.
Sixteen.
Alone.
Holding a tire bar against a knife.
The man stepped toward her.
“You're going to regret that.”
He lunged.
Rebecca raised the bar.
The knife flashed.
Pain exploded across her forearm.
She stumbled against the Harley.
Blood ran down her sleeve.
The thief raised the knife again.
Then the diner door exploded open.
“What do you think you're doing?”
The Patch
Rooster stood in the doorway.
He looked enormous.
His hoodie was gone.
His tattooed arms were bare.
His eyes moved from the thieves to the knife.
Then to Rebecca's bleeding arm.
Then to the blood on his motorcycle.
The parking lot went silent.
The knife-wielding man backed away.
“Stay back.”
Rooster walked toward him.
“I wouldn't do that.”
The thief raised the knife.
Rooster moved.
Fast.
He caught the man's wrist, twisted, and sent the knife spinning across the asphalt.
The thief screamed.
Rooster slammed him against the pickup.
The other man ran.
He jumped into the truck and sped away, leaving his partner behind.
Rooster didn't chase him.
He looked down at the man pinned beneath his hand.
“You picked the wrong bike.”
Then he released him.
The thief collapsed.
Rooster turned toward Rebecca.
She was pale.
Blood covered her sleeve.
“You're bleeding on my chrome.”
Rebecca stared at him.
“I'm sorry.”
Her knees gave way.
Rooster caught her.
His enormous hands were surprisingly gentle.
“Stupid kid.”
“I had to.”
“No, you didn't.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “If I lose this job, Leo loses his medicine.”
Rooster's expression changed.
He looked toward the diner.
Toward the sleeping boy.
Then back at Rebecca.
“That's why you did it?”
She nodded.
Rooster pulled out his phone.
“Send somebody with a truck,” he said. “Watch my bike.”
Then he wrapped his hoodie around Rebecca's arm.
“Keep pressure here.”
“I can't afford an ambulance.”
“You ain't paying.”
“You don't understand.”
His eyes locked onto hers.
“I understand plenty.”
Then he carried her inside.
The Boy in the Pink Blanket
At the hospital, Rebecca received twelve stitches.
Leo received a breathing treatment after the stress of the night triggered his asthma.
Rooster stayed.
He didn't pace.
He didn't complain.
He sat in the waiting room with his elbows on his knees.
Every few minutes, his thumb touched the old photograph in his wallet.
When a nurse brought Leo a juice box, Rooster thanked her.
When a social worker asked about their parents, Rebecca looked away.
“Our mother is working.”
The lie was weak.
Rooster noticed.
He noticed everything.
By dawn, Rebecca was released.
Rooster paid for her medicine before she could protest.
Outside the hospital, Rebecca stood beside Leo.
“You've done enough.”
“No.”
“I don't even know you.”
Rooster looked at Leo.
Then at her.
“You got somewhere safe to go?”
“Yes.”
Too fast.
Rooster heard the lie.
But he didn't force it.
“For now,” he said.
Five days later, Rebecca's world collapsed.
Sam fired her.
The rent deadline arrived.
The apartment was empty except for two boxes and a deflated air mattress.
Rebecca had thirty-eight dollars.
Leo sat on the floor with his broken plastic fire truck.
“Becca?”
She looked at him.
“Where are we sleeping tonight?”
Rebecca covered her face.
For months, she had survived because there was always another task.
Another shift.
Another bill.
Another emergency.
But now there was nothing left.