Biker Was Crying Over A Thing In That Blue Towel And I Had To Pull Over To See What Broke This Tough Man

I didn’t feel like one. I felt like a fool who’d judged someone by leather and patches.

We reached the vet in fourteen minutes. Nomad was out before I stopped, running with the puppy in his arms. A vet tech met him at the door.

“Hit by car,” he said quickly. “Back leg’s broken. Maybe internal bleeding. She’s been out there at least an hour.”

The tech took her, and Nomad stood there, arms empty, looking lost. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, smearing tears across weathered cheeks.

We waited together for two hours. He didn’t say much—just sat hunched forward, hands clasped, staring at the floor. I saw his lips moving silently. He was praying.

Finally, the vet came out. Young, tired-looking. “She’s stable,” she said.

Nomad sagged with relief. “Thank God.”

“She’s a fighter. Broken femur, road rash, mild shock. No internal bleeding. She’ll need surgery and weeks of recovery. Do you know who owns her?”

“No collar, no chip,” he said. “I checked. She’s either dumped or a stray.”

“She’ll go to the county shelter after treatment,” the vet said. “They’ll try to find her a home, but with the medical bills…”

She didn’t finish. We knew what she meant.Continue reading…