“He’s AUTISTIC,” I screamed. “He can’t speak. He doesn’t understand danger. He could be on the highway right now.”
“Ma’am, calm down. File a report after 24 hours.”
Twenty-four hours. Like my non-verbal child who was drawn to traffic and couldn’t swim was just playing hide and seek somewhere.
Noah had been gone forty-five minutes. In that time, I’d searched every store, every bathroom, every corner of that mall. Other parents gave me sympathetic looks but didn’t help. Employees said they’d “keep an eye out.” Nobody locked the exits. Nobody called police.
I ran to the parking lot thinking maybe he’d gone to our car. The highway was right there, just beyond a chain-link fence Noah could easily climb.
That’s when twenty motorcycles pulled in.
The engines were so loud I felt them in my chest. They parked in formation and the leader dismounted first. Six-foot-four. Probably 300 pounds. Gray beard to his chest. Vest that said “Road Warriors MC” with a skull and crossed pistons.
