The last intact portion of cake collapsed.
“There.”
The Stepfather pointed toward the pickup.
“No more birthday.”
The Little Boy dropped to his knees.
He searched through wet napkins and frosting until his fingers closed around the number-seven candle.
The Stepfather marched toward the truck.
“Last chance.”
The child remained kneeling.
The passenger door opened.
Then slammed.
The Stepfather climbed behind the wheel.
He waited.
Five seconds.
Ten.
The Little Boy still did not move.
The pickup pulled away.
The child looked up.
At first, he seemed to assume the truck would stop near the road.
It did not.
It turned toward the highway.
The Little Boy stood.
“Wait!”
The truck accelerated.
“Wait!”
He ran several steps.
His wet sneakers slipped.
He nearly fell.
“Please!”
Red taillights disappeared behind rain and traffic.
The Little Boy stopped beneath the edge of the canopy.
His chest rose and fell quickly.
He stared at the road.
No truck returned.
He whispered one word.
“Please.”
Nobody answered.
He went back to the cake.
The woman at the neighboring pump approached.
“Sweetheart?”
The Little Boy recoiled immediately.
She stopped.
“Are you okay?”
He nodded.
Obviously not.
“Was that your dad?”
The Little Boy shook his head.
“Stepdad.”
“Is he coming back?”
The child did not answer.
The woman took out her phone.
The Little Boy panicked.
“No police.”
She paused.
“What?”
“Please don’t.”
“Why?”
The Little Boy clutched the candle.
“He said if I make trouble, they’ll put me somewhere else.”
The woman’s expression changed.
“Who said that?”
The boy looked toward the highway.
“My stepdad.”
Before she could answer, the deep sound of a motorcycle rolled beneath the canopy.
A black touring bike turned from the highway and approached pump four.
The rider was large.
Mid-fifties.
Gray-streaked beard.
Weathered face.
Black leather vest over a charcoal shirt.
Dark jeans.
Heavy boots.
His arms were tattooed from wrist to shoulder.
He removed black riding gloves first.
Then his helmet.
He saw the child.
More accurately, he saw the scene.
Small boy.
Wet pavement.
Destroyed cake.
Woman holding a phone.
No adult obviously belonging to the child.
The Biker stopped before reaching the fuel pump.
He had spent enough years around trouble to recognize when something was wrong before anyone explained it.
He placed the helmet on the motorcycle.
The woman met his eyes.
She gave the smallest nod toward the boy.
The Biker approached slowly.
Not directly.
He stopped several feet away and crouched.
The Little Boy watched him warily.
The Biker’s eyes moved toward the cake.
Then the candle.
“Rough birthday?”