A flat tire I can fix in eight minutes. That problem was bigger than a tire.
So I made a decision, the way my father taught me to, which is fast and all the way.
“Listen to me,” I said, standing up, wiping blood and grease down my jeans. “You’re not driving off alone into the night with no plan and a quarter tank. You’d make forty miles and run dry and be standing on another shoulder by sunrise, except next time the man who stops might be him.”
Her whole face fell. I think for a second she thought I was about to climb on my bike and leave them there.
“You’re following me,” I said. “I ride in front. You stay glued to my taillight. We’re going somewhere safe, somewhere he doesn’t know about and never will.”
“Where?” she whispered.
I pulled out my phone and called a
