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I was heading home from work when I spotted a motorcycle parked on the shoulder of Highway 52.
To be honest, my first instinct was to keep driving. I’d always assumed bikers were trouble—the kind of men my mother warned me about. But something made me slow down.
That’s when I saw him. A towering man in a leather vest, kneeling in the ditch, lifting something small and fragile with the kind of care you’d use to hold glass. He wrapped it in a blue-and-white striped towel and cradled it against his chest like it was precious.
The tenderness in his movements stopped me cold. I pulled over without thinking. I had to know what could make a man like that cry.
He didn’t notice me at first. He was rocking gently, whispering words I couldn’t hear. As I got closer, I saw what he held: a German Shepherd puppy, maybe four months old, bloodied and filthy. One of her back legs was twisted unnaturally. Her breathing was shallow and fast.
“Is he okay?” I asked, stupidly.
The biker looked up. Tears streamed into his beard, his eyes red and raw. “Someone hit her and kept going,” he said, voice cracking. “She dragged herself into the ditch. I heard her crying when I rode past.”
The anguish in his face made me ashamed. I’d spent years crossing the street to avoid men like him. And here he was, stopping his ride to save a dying animal.
“I called the emergency vet,” he said. “They’re twenty minutes away in Riverside. I don’t think she has twenty minutes.”
I surprised myself. “My car’s faster than your bike. Let me drive you.”
He stared at me for a moment, like he wasn’t sure I was real. Then he nodded. “Thank you. God, thank you.”
We ran to my car. He slid into the back seat, still cradling the puppy. I drove faster than I ever have, checking the mirror constantly.
He bent over her, stroking her head with one massive, tattooed finger. “Stay with me, baby girl,” he whispered. “You’re gonna be okay. I promise.”
She whimpered—a weak, heartbreaking sound. He made a noise I’d never heard from a grown man, somewhere between a sob and a prayer. “I got you,” he said. “You’re safe now. Nobody’s ever gonna hurt you again.”
I ran a red light. I didn’t care.
“What’s your name?” I asked, needing to break the silence.
“Nomad,” he said. “Real name’s Robert. Been riding thirty-eight years. Never passed an animal in need. Can’t do it.”
“I’m Chris,” I said. “And I’m sorry I almost didn’t stop.”
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