He almost rode past her. It was just after midnight on Interstate 40 when his headlight flashed across something pink in the darkness. A child stood motionless in the center of the lane.
She looked no older than six. Barefoot. Her unicorn nightgown splattered with blood. Semi-trucks blared their horns and swerved around her, their lights streaking past. He slammed his Harley’s brakes so hard the bike nearly toppled.
When he reached her, she didn’t run. Didn’t scream. Not even a sob. She just stared at him with hollow, empty eyes, lips parting like she was trying to speak—yet no sound came.
Mute.
His combat medic instincts kicked in. He checked her quickly for wounds, for cuts, for stab marks—anything. But the blood on her wasn’t hers.
Forty years of riding had shown him some strange things on the road. But nothing like this.
He cut the engine, dropped the kickstand, and sprinted toward her.
“Sweetheart, what are you doing out here?”
Up close, he could see her blonde hair was tangled, her feet raw and bleeding from walking the asphalt. Her tiny hands were sticky with blood, crimson smeared across her face.
She opened her mouth again, lips moving silently. No sound. Only air.
Another semi roared past, rattling the ground. He knew they’d be killed if they stayed there another second.
He scooped her into his arms. She clung to him without resistance, burying her bloody face into his leather vest.
On the shoulder, he set her down and pulled out his phone to call 911—when she suddenly seized his hand, tugging hard toward the tree line. Her gestures were frantic, pointing, pleading.
“You want me to go in there? Into the woods?” he asked.
She nodded fiercely, tears streaming silently down her cheeks. She dropped to her knees, hands pressed together like prayer, begging him.
“Is someone hurt?” he pressed.
She rocked her arms like she was holding a baby, then tilted her head sideways—the universal sign for sleeping… or dead.
His blood ran cold. “There’s a baby in there?”
The girl nodded, tugging harder.
He raised the phone again. “911, this is John Crawford. Mile marker 147. I’ve got a child, maybe six, mute, covered in blood. She says someone’s hurt in the woods.”
“Sir, do not go into the woods,” the dispatcher warned. “Wait for police—”
But John had already made up his mind. He killed the call, switched on his flashlight, and looked down at the girl.
“Show me,” he said. “Take me there.”
And she ran.