The chapter president forgot about coffee.
He rolled forward slowly, stopped twenty feet away, killed the engine, and climbed off.
The little girl saw him.
She stopped pedaling.
Her sneakered foot slipped.
The bicycle tipped.
The president moved instinctively.
“Easy.”
She caught herself before falling.
He stopped immediately so he would not frighten her.
Behind him, the other riders began turning off their motorcycles.
The girl looked at them.
Thirty-two strangers dressed in black.
Some huge.
Some tattooed.
One woman with a silver braid.
One older rider with an eye patch from an industrial accident decades earlier.
Another with a gray beard nearly touching his chest.
The little girl’s face tightened.
The chapter president slowly removed his gloves.
Then his helmet.
He was fifty-four.
Six-foot-four.
Shaved head.
Thick beard streaked with gray.
A tattoo of a mountain range covered one forearm.
Most adults found him intimidating before he spoke.
Children usually stared at his beard.
He lowered himself onto one knee.
“Hey.”
The girl said nothing.
Her chest hitched.
“You hurt?”
She shook her head.
“Where’s your mom?”
That changed everything.
The little girl turned quickly and pointed.
A silver sedan sat three rows away.
Driver’s door closed.
Headlights off.
Engine apparently running because exhaust drifted faintly from the tailpipe.
The chapter president followed her finger.
The girl whispered:
“She won’t wake up.”
His body changed instantly.
He looked over his shoulder.
“Medic.”
A biker near the back was already moving.
The former Army medic had been retired from military service for more than fifteen years and now worked maintenance at a school district, but old training never fully left.
Another rider pulled out his phone.
“Calling 911.”
The chapter president stood.
The little girl grabbed his vest.
He looked down.
Her tiny fist had closed around the leather near his ribs.
“Don’t leave me.”
The words hit him harder than he expected.
He lowered himself again.
“I’m not leaving.”
The former medic and two other riders ran toward the sedan.
The girl looked after them.
“My mommy was talking.”
“What happened?”
“She said she felt funny.”
“Then what?”
“She stopped.”
“In the car?”
The girl nodded.
“She told me if she ever got sick I had to find a grown-up.”
The chapter president looked at the pink bicycle.
“Where did you get the bike?”
“It was in the back.”
“Back of the car?”
She nodded.
“I couldn’t open the big door all the way.”
“So you got it out?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I thought people would see me faster.”
The president swallowed.
Smart kid.
Terrified kid.
Alone at almost midnight trying to solve a problem too large for her with a bicycle and pajamas.
One of the riders shouted from the sedan.
“She’s breathing!”
Another: