I’d been riding alone. Coming back from my brother’s memorial in Colorado. Cancer took him at sixty-five. Too young. Too fast. I’d been on the road for twelve hours, running from grief, when I pulled into that gas station.
Just needed coffee. Bathroom. Ten minutes.
“She’s not worth two grand. Look at her arms.”
I froze at the urinal. What were they talking about?
“She’s young. That’s what matters. Clean her up, she’ll pass for eighteen.”
“My buyer wants younger. Fourteen, fifteen tops.”
My hands started shaking. I knew what this was. Had heard about it. Read articles. Never thought I’d stumble into it.
“Please,” a girl’s voice. Young. Desperate. “Please let me go. I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”
A slap. Loud enough to hear clearly. The girl cried out.
I zipped up. Washed my hands slowly. Thinking. The bathroom had one exit. Right past me. They’d have to walk by.
My phone was in my vest. I could call 911. But what would I say? And how long would it take? These men would be gone in five minutes. The girl with them.
The door opened.
Three men walked out first. Mid-thirties to forties. Jeans. Baseball caps. Could’ve been anyone. Behind them, a teenage girl. Thin. Dirty clothes. Bruised face. Her hands were zip-tied in front of her.
She saw me. Made eye contact. Mouthed those two words: “Help me.”
One of the men noticed. “Keep walking.”
He shoved her toward the exit. They were heading to a white van in the parking lot. Windows tinted. No plates visible from where I stood.
“Gentlemen,” I called out. “Got a minute?”
They turned. Looked at me. Six-foot-two biker covered in road dust and leather. One of them reached behind his back. Gun, probably.
“Not interested in whatever you’re selling, old man.”
“Funny. I was thinking the same thing.” I looked at the girl. “How much?”
Their expressions changed. Suspicion. But also interest.
“How much for what?”
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