Something controlled.
His eyes moved once.
The truck.
The tools.
The motorcycle.
The knife.
Rebecca's blood.
He stepped forward.
Slowly.
The thief raised the blade.
"Stay back."
Rooster didn't.
"I'll cut you."
Rooster continued walking.
The knife came forward.
Rooster's hand moved.
He caught the man's wrist.
Twisted.
The knife dropped.
Rooster shoved him against the flatbed.
The truck rocked.
The thief cried out.
The second man scrambled into the truck.
The engine roared.
He drove away, abandoning his partner.
Rooster didn't chase him.
He kept the first man pinned.
"You picked the wrong bike," he said quietly.
Then his eyes moved to Rebecca.
"Wrong kid, too."
He shoved the thief to the pavement and kicked the knife away.
Then he walked toward Rebecca.
She was pale.
Blood soaked her sleeve.
"You okay?"
She nodded.
Then her knees gave out.
Rooster caught her.
His hands were surprisingly gentle.
"Stupid kid."
Rebecca whispered, "I had to."
"No, you didn't."
"If I lost my job, Leo wouldn't get his medicine."
Rooster looked toward the diner.
At the sleeping child.
His expression changed.
He took out his phone.
"Send a prospect with a truck," he said. "Watch my bike."
Then he tore a strip from his hoodie and wrapped Rebecca's arm.
She winced.
"Keep pressure."
"I can't afford an ambulance."
"You're not paying."
"You don't understand."
Rooster looked directly into her eyes.
"I understand plenty."
He lifted her.
Inside the diner, the two truckers stared.
Rooster carried Rebecca to a booth.
Then he walked toward Leo.
The boy was still asleep.
His breathing had become rougher.
Rooster picked up the pink blanket and wrapped it around him.
Leo opened his eyes.
He looked at the enormous biker.
"Are you a giant?"
Rooster paused.
"Sometimes."
Leo closed his eyes again.
Ten minutes later, the ambulance arrived.
Police came too.
The thief was arrested.
Rebecca received stitches.
Leo needed a breathing treatment.
Rooster stayed.
He didn't leave.
Not when the doctors treated Rebecca.
Not when the social worker asked questions.
Not when dawn began to brighten the hospital windows.
Rebecca had never understood why.
She would understand soon.
The Ghost in the Photograph
Rebecca received twelve stitches.
The wound was painful, but the pain was familiar.
Bills hurt more.
Fear hurt more.
The thought of losing Leo hurt most of all.
At the hospital, a social worker asked the obvious question.
"Where is your guardian?"
Rebecca hesitated.
"Our mother works nights."
The social worker looked at her.
Rebecca knew the lie wasn't convincing.
Rooster sat across the room.
He said nothing.
But he heard everything.
Leo slept in a hospital bed nearby after his breathing treatment.
The boy looked smaller beneath the white blankets.
Rebecca watched his chest rise.
And fall.
Rise.
Fall.
She didn't breathe properly until he did.
When the doctor finally said Leo was stable, Rebecca closed her eyes.
Rooster approached.
"You got somewhere safe to go?"
"Yes."
The answer came too quickly.
Rooster knew it was a lie.
But he didn't challenge her.
Not yet.
By dawn, Rebecca was discharged.
Rooster paid for the medicine.
She protested.
He ignored her.
Outside the hospital, a prospect had brought his Harley around.
Rebecca stood beside Leo.
"Thank you."
Rooster nodded.
"How old are you?"
"Eighteen."
His eyes narrowed.
"Sixteen," she admitted.
His jaw tightened.
Not at her.
"Your mother?"
"Gone."
"Father?"
"Gone longer."
Rooster looked at Leo.
"He needs medicine."
"I know."
"That's why you work?"
Rebecca nodded.
Rooster said nothing.
Five days later, Rebecca's world collapsed.
Sam fired her.
The landlord evicted her.
Her apartment was almost empty.
The couch was gone.
The kitchen table was gone.
Only two cardboard boxes and a suitcase remained.
Leo sat on a deflated air mattress.
He was playing with a broken plastic fire truck.
Rebecca had thirty-eight dollars.
No job.
No home.
No adult.
No plan.
Leo looked up.
"Becca, where are we sleeping tonight?"
She tried to answer.
Nothing came.
Then she covered her face.
She cried.
Not quietly.
Not gracefully.
She cried with the exhaustion of someone who had been strong for too long.
She had done everything.
Worked nights.
Skipped meals.
Protected Leo.
Protected a stranger's motorcycle.
She had bled for it.
And still, everything had been taken.
Then the floor began to vibrate.
Rebecca stopped crying.
Leo looked up.
"What is that?"
The sound grew.
One engine.
Then another.
Then another.
Rebecca walked to the window.
Her mouth fell open.
Thirty motorcycles filled the parking lot.
Black leather.
Chrome.
Denim.
Engines.
The riders formed a line.
The building's residents shut their blinds.
Doors locked.
Then Rebecca saw Rooster.
He was walking toward the stairs.
Beside him was an older man with silver hair.
Behind them, other bikers carried boxes.
One held a stuffed dinosaur.
A knock came.
Rebecca opened the door.
Rooster stood there.
"Heard you were moving."
"I don't have a choice."
He looked into the empty apartment.
The air mattress.
The boxes.
Leo.
Then he reached into his vest.
He handed her a thick envelope.
"What's this?"
"Open it."
Rebecca did.
Hospital bill.
Paid.
Pharmacy invoice.
Paid.
Then a lease.
Two-bedroom townhouse.
Two years paid.
She stared.
"This isn't real."
"It is."
"I can't accept this."
"You can."
"It's too much."
Rooster's voice softened.
"You stood in front of a knife for my bike."
"I needed my job."
"I know."
He reached into his wallet.
He pulled out the photograph.
The baby in the pink blanket.
"This is Sophie."
Rebecca looked at him.
Rooster sat down.
"Thirty years ago, I was a young man. I had nothing. Sophie had lungs like your brother."
Rebecca's eyes filled.
"She had a bad attack one night."
He stared at the photograph.
"I didn't have insurance. I was afraid of the hospital bill."
His voice became quieter.
"I thought I could handle it."