I almost killed this little girl. She was crawling alone on highway at midnight wearing a diaper and dog collar.
I almost didn’t see her crawling across Interstate 40 at midnight until his headlight caught the reflection from the metal dog collar around her neck.
I’m seventy years old. Been riding for forty-five years. Ridden through rainstorms, snowstorms, and fog so thick I couldn’t see ten feet ahead.
But I’ve never slammed on my brakes harder than I did that night when I saw what looked like an animal in the middle of the highway turn out to be a child.
Maybe eighteen months old. Wearing nothing but a diaper. Crawling on hands and knees across the westbound lane. Cars swerving around her. Nobody stopping.
The dog collar was leather. Heavy. The kind you’d put on a pit bull or rottweiler. It had a chain attached dragging behind her. She was crying. Bleeding from her knees.
When she saw my headlight, she didn’t try to crawl away. She crawled toward me. Like she’d been waiting for someone. Anyone.
When I got close enough to see her face, I realized three things that made my blood run cold: she had cigarette burns covering her arms, the chain on her collar was freshly broken like she’d ripped free from something.
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