“Ma’am,” one of the bikers addressed me, his voice respectful despite his intimidating appearance. “Would you mind going inside and buying some water and maybe some band-aids? Emma’s feet are pretty cut up.”
I nodded, hurrying inside. Through the window, I watched the lead biker – the one Emma had run to – take off his leather vest and wrap it around her small shoulders.
When I came back out with supplies, Emma was sitting on the biker’s motorcycle, her feet off the ground while another biker gently cleaned her wounds. She was talking now, her small voice carrying across the quiet parking lot.
“Mommy said if Ray ever hurt me bad again, I should run. Run and find the skull angels. She said you helped her once, when she was little like me. Said you had a special word that meant you’d keep me safe.”
The lead biker’s hands were impossibly gentle as he applied antibiotic ointment to her feet. “Your mama was brave, Emma. She was eight years old, just like you, when she found us. And we kept our promise to keep her safe.”
“But Ray found us,” Emma whispered. “He found the shelter. He hurt Mommy really bad this time. She couldn’t get up. Told me to run, find the skull angels, say the word.”Continue reading…
