Helen nearly slammed on the brakes. “What are you talking about, Sophie? There’s no one there.”

But Sophie was thrashing against her seatbelt now, tears streaking her cheeks. “Please, Mommy! He’s down there! The man with the leather jacket and beard—he’s bleeding! Please, he needs help!”

Helen’s first thought was that her daughter was overtired. She had seen no crash, no smoke, no broken guardrails. The road looked perfectly clear. But Sophie’s panic was unlike any tantrum she’d had before. Something in her voice—desperate, raw, urgent—compelled Helen to pull to the shoulder.

Before the car had fully stopped, Sophie shoved open the door and ran, the hem of her princess gown fluttering wildly in the wind.

“Sophie!” Helen cried, chasing after her.

Down the grassy slope, Helen saw what made her daughter scream.

A black Harley Davidson lay twisted against a tree, its chrome mangled. Beside it, sprawled on the cold earth, was a man who looked like a giant. His cut-off vest bore the faded patch of a motorcycle club. His chest glistened with blood. His breaths rattled shallowly, as if each one might be the last.