I’m a biker, and I’ve stopped for a hundred stranded cars over thirty years. That night on Route 9 was the first time I almost wished I hadn’t.
It was past midnight. Cold. A little Honda sat crooked on the shoulder with the hazards blinking, back tire flat to the rim.
A girl stood next to it. Maybe nineteen. Arms wrapped tight around herself, and not from the cold.
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I pulled my Harley up slow so I wouldn’t scare her. Killed the engine. Told her my name and that I’d have her rolling in ten minutes.
She didn’t say thank you. She just kept looking back at the car.
My name’s Dale. I’ve been riding since before this
