1. Shannon #2
“Food. When did you last eat something that wasn’t from a vending machine?”
My stomach chooses that moment to clench painfully, reminding me that the sleeve of crackers I split with Aiden this afternoon was our last meal. “We’re fine.”
“Like hell you are.” He runs a hand through his hair, messing up those dark waves. “Look, lady—”
“Shannon.” The name slips out before I can stop it. “My name’s Shannon.”
Something shifts in his expression. Softens, maybe. “Shannon. I’m Reyes.” He pauses, then adds, “Most people call me Savior.”
“Savior?” I can’t keep the skepticism out of my voice.
His mouth quirks up at one corner. “Road name. Don’t read too much into it.”
But I already am. Because standing here in this cold, abandoned place with my son sleeping behind me, this dangerous stranger is the first person in four days who’s asked if we’ve eaten. The first person who’s looked at Aiden’s cast and seen what it really is.
The first person who makes me feel like maybe we’re not completely alone.
“There’s a diner about ten miles up the road,” he says. “All-night place. They make a decent burger.”
“I can’t—” I start, then stop. Can’t afford it. Can’t trust him. Can’t risk it. Too many can’ts for one sentence.
“My treat,” he says, like he’s reading my mind. “Kid needs to eat.”
“Why?” The question comes out sharper than I intended. “Why would you help us?”
He’s quiet for so long I think he’s not going to answer. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough around the edges again.
“Because someone should have helped me once. And didn’t.”
The honesty in those words hits me like a sucker punch. This isn’t charity or pity. It’s something deeper. Something that recognizes the broken pieces in me because he’s got matching scars.
“Okay,” I hear myself say. “But just food.”
His smile is slow and dangerous and does absolutely nothing to convince me this is a good idea. “Just food.”
He turns and starts walking toward the gap in the fence, expecting me to follow. And God help me, I do. I wake Aiden gently, lift him into my arms, and follow this stranger called Savior into the darkness.
“Just food,” I repeat, more to myself than to him.
“Just food,” he agrees, but there’s something in his voice that makes me think we’re both lying.
The walk to his bike feels like a mile, though it’s probably only a few hundred yards. Aiden stays sleepy and pliant in my arms, his head heavy against my shoulder. The cast makes him awkward to carry, but I manage. I’ve gotten good at managing impossible things.
“Where’s your car?” Savior asks, scanning the empty road.
“About a mile back.” The admission tastes like failure. “Overheated and just… stopped. When I lifted the hood, steam shot out and hissed like an angry snake. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about engines…” I ask biting my lip. He rides a bike, so he’s got to know something.
“Some.” He glances back toward the dark stretch of highway. “But not enough to take a look in the middle of the night with nothing but a phone light. We’ll figure it out in the morning.”
The disappointment hits harder than it should. I knew the car was toast, but hearing him confirm it makes it real. “Right. Morning.”
He studies my face for a moment, then his voice goes gentler.
“Look, if I were planning to hurt you or, God forbid, your boy, you picked the perfect spot for it. Middle of nowhere, no witnesses, no help for miles.” His gaze drops to my hand, still gripping the tire iron.
“And that little piece of metal you’re hiding wouldn’t stop me for long. ”
My breath catches, but he keeps talking.
“So come on. Let’s get some food before someone truly scary finds you and your kid out here tonight.”
It should terrify me, the casual way he talks about violence. Instead, it’s his honesty that gets to me. He’s not pretending to be harmless. He’s telling me exactly what I already know—that I’m vulnerable, that he could hurt us if he wanted to, and that he’s choosing not to.
That has to count for something.
When we reach the motorcycle, I stop short. It’s a beast—all black chrome and muscle, the kind of machine that announces its rider before he even shows up. The Harley’s engine ticks as it cools, and I can smell the heat radiating off the pipes.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Savior pulls a helmet from somewhere and hands it to me. “Problem?”
“I’m not getting on that thing with my son.”
“Then you’re walking ten miles in the cold.” He shrugs like it doesn’t matter to him either way, but I catch the way his gaze flicks to Aiden. “Your choice.”
Aiden stirs in my arms, his voice small and sleepy. “Mama, I’m hungry.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. Of course he’s hungry. He’s been hungry for days, and I keep telling him to wait, to be patient, to hang on just a little longer. I press my lips to his forehead and rock him gently, the way I have a thousand times before.
“I know, baby. We’re going to get you something to eat real soon, okay?”
Savior watches this exchange with something unreadable in his expression. When Aiden settles back against my shoulder, he speaks quietly.
“He rides between us. I’ll go slow.”
“Slow?”
“Grandmother slow. Scout’s honor.”
“Were you a Scout?”
His grin is sharp and unapologetic. “Hell no.”
Despite everything—the fear, the exhaustion, the sheer insanity of this situation—I almost smile. Almost.
“If you get us killed—”
“I won’t.” The way he says it, flat and certain, makes me believe him. This is a man who’s made promises he’s kept. Probably made threats he’s kept too.
I put the helmet on, fumbling with the strap. My hands are shaking, whether from cold or adrenaline or the way Savior’s watching me, I don’t know. When I can’t get the buckle to work, he steps closer.
“Here.”
His fingers brush mine as he takes over, and I feel that touch like an electric shock.
His hands are warm, calloused, gentle in a way that doesn’t match the rest of him.
He’s close enough that I can see the stubble on his jaw, close enough to catch that scent again—leather and motor oil and something that’s purely him.
“There.” He steps back, and I immediately miss the warmth.
Getting on the bike is an exercise in trust and terror. Savior climbs on first, then helps me settle Aiden between us. My son wakes up enough to be curious about the “motorcycle” but not enough to be scared. Three-year-olds adapt faster than adults do.
When I slide on behind them, my thighs bracket Savior’s hips, and suddenly I’m very aware of how solid he is. How warm. How the leather of his jacket feels under my palms when I have to hold on.
“Ready?” he asks over his shoulder.
No. Absolutely not. This is the worst idea I’ve had in a week full of bad ideas.
“Yeah,” I lie.
The engine roars to life beneath us, a controlled explosion of power that vibrates through my bones.
Aiden giggles—actually giggles—and claps his good hand against the gas tank.
For a moment, he sounds like the happy kid he was just a month ago, before his world shrank to hushed warnings and the four walls of Mason's house.
Savior pulls away from the curb slowly, like he promised. Grandmother slow. But even at this pace, the world rushes past us in a way that makes my heart hammer. I’m not used to being this exposed, this vulnerable. My arms tighten around both of them automatically.
“You okay back there?” Savior calls over the engine noise.
Am I? I’m on a motorcycle with a stranger and my three-year-old son, heading to a diner in the middle of nowhere because I have no other choice. Mason could be looking for us right now. I have eighteen dollars to my name and a car that won’t start.
But for the first time in days, I’m warm. For the first time in weeks, someone else is making the decisions. And for the first time since I can remember, the constant knot of fear in my chest has loosened just enough to let me breathe.
“Yeah,” I call back, and this time it’s not entirely a lie.
The road stretches ahead of us, empty and dark except for our headlight cutting through the night. Behind us, the freight yard disappears into nothing. Whatever comes next—whatever this dangerous man with the gentle hands has planned—it has to be better than sleeping in a boxcar.
It has to be.
Because I’m tired of being afraid, and something about the way Savior holds himself, the way he noticed what Mason did to Aiden, the way he asked when we last ate—something tells me that maybe, just maybe, I don’t have to be afraid of him.
At least not in the way I was afraid of Mason.
This is a different kind of danger entirely.