“How much does he usually let you put in?” I asked, watching the numbers climb on the pump.
Her face crumpled. “Whatever these coins buy. Usually about half a gallon. Enough to get home.”
I’m sixty-six years old. Been riding for forty-three years. Seen a lot of things. But something about this girl’s fear made my blood run cold. “Where’s home?”
“Forty miles from here.” She was crying harder now. “Please, you have to stop. He’s going to come out any second and he’s going to think I was flirting with you or asking for money or—”
The gas pump clicked off. I’d filled her tank completely. Forty-two dollars’ worth.
She stared at the numbers in horror. “Oh my God. Oh my God, what did you do? He’s going to kill me. He’s literally going to kill me.”
“Why would your boyfriend kill you for someone else putting gas in your car?” But I already knew the answer. I could see it in her eyes. In the way she kept glancing at the store entrance. In the bruises on her arms that she was trying to hide with her sleeves.
“You don’t know him. You don’t know what he’s like when he’s mad.” She grabbed my arm. “Please, can you just leave? Right now? Before he sees you?”
“I’m not leaving you here, sweetheart.” She started backing away from me. “You’re making it worse. You’re making everything worse. He’s going to think I set this up. He’s going to think I wanted you to rescue me.”
“Did you want me to rescue you?” She opened her mouth to answer, but then her whole body went rigid. “He’s coming. Oh God, he’s coming. Please just go.”

I turned and saw him walking out of the gas station. Early twenties. Muscle shirt. Tattoos that looked like he’d gotten them in someone’s garage. The kind of guy who gets bigger when there’s an audience.
He took one look at me standing by his girlfriend, saw the full tank of gas, and his expression turned dark.
“The hell is this?” He walked up fast, got right in her face. “I leave you alone for five minutes and you’re out here begging strangers for money?”

“I didn’t ask him for anything, Tyler. I swear. He just—” Tyler grabbed her arm. Hard. She winced. “He just what? Just happened to fill up our tank? Nobody does that unless someone’s asking.”
I stepped forward. “Son, I filled her tank because I saw a young lady in need. She didn’t ask me for anything. This is on me, not her.”
Tyler looked at me for the first time. Really looked at me. I’m 6’3″, 240 pounds, leather vest with forty years of patches, and a gray beard down to my chest. I look exactly like what I am—an old biker who’s seen some things and isn’t afraid of punk kids.
“Yeah? Well, maybe you should mind your own business, old man. This is my girlfriend and my car. I don’t need your charity.” He yanked the girl toward the car. “Get in. Now.”
She scrambled to obey, but I stepped between them and the car door. “I don’t think she wants to go with you, son.”
Tyler laughed. An ugly laugh. “Are you kidding me right now? Brandi, tell this old dude you want to come with me.”
“Brandi,” I said quietly, not taking my eyes off Tyler. “Do you feel safe with him? Truth. Right now.”
“She feels fine!” Tyler shouted. “Tell him, Brandi. Tell him we’re fine.” But Brandi wasn’t saying anything. She was crying silently, her arms wrapped around herself.
That’s when Tyler made his mistake. He pulled out his gun and shot at……. (continue reading in the C0MMENT)