The teenage cashier had leaned over and hissed under his breath. “Don’t touch him. That’s a Hells Angel. You don’t want problems like that.”
Rachel had looked at the man again. He didn’t look dangerous in that moment. He looked human. Broken. Alone. She had felt the familiar tug in her chest, the one that had gotten her into trouble before, the one that told her ignoring someone in pain would cost her more than eight dollars ever could.
She had taken the last eight dollars from her wallet—the money she had saved for Caleb’s breakfast groceries—and bought bottled water, aspirin, and a small pack of gauze. She had knelt on the filthy concrete and pressed the gauze against his wound while cars slowed to stare and quickly drove off. She had lifted his head carefully, whispering reassurance as he swallowed the pills.
When she called 911, she stayed with him until the ambulance arrived. As paramedics loaded him onto the stretcher, his large hand had gripped her wrist with surprising strength.
“Why?” he had rasped.
“Because someone should,” she had answered.
Now, staring at one hundred motorcycles outside her apartment building, Rachel wondered if kindness had just put her son in danger.
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