I thought it was just the wind howling under the I-71 overpass, a trick of the Ohio rain against my helmet, but when I cut the engine, the sound turned into a desperate, rhythmic sob that bypassed my ears and went straight for my throat.
Chapter 1: The Phantom Frequency
The rain wasn’t just falling in North-Central Ohio that night; it was punishing the earth. It turned the rolling hills outside of Mansfield into a blurred smear of charcoal greys and bruised purples. I shifted my weight on the seat of my ’98 Fat Boy, feeling every one of my forty-five years in the dull ache of my lower back. My hands, encased in sodden leather gloves, were stiff. The knuckles were swollen—a gift from a lifetime spent turning wrenches in unheated garages and holding onto things I should have let go of a decade ago.
I-71 was a graveyard at 2:00 AM. On a Tuesday night in late October, the only people on the road are long-haul truckers fueled by caffeine and regret, or ghosts. Since Sarah died three years ago, I’d spent a lot of time wondering which category I fell into. The house in Bellville was too quiet. The silence in our bedroom had a way of expanding until it felt like it was crushing my ribs. So, I did what I always did when the walls started closing in: I’d check the oil, kick the starter, and ride until the cold air numbed the parts of me that still hurt.
The wind was a physical wall, buffeting my chest, but the bike was heavy enough to hold the line. I was humming an old Springsteen track, something about lost towns and broken promises, when the sound first clipped my ears.
At first, I thought it was a mechanical failure. A high-pitched, rhythmic whining that cut through the low-frequency thrum of the 1340cc Evolution engine. My heart sank. A breakdown out here meant a long walk in the mud and a tow bill I didn’t want to pay. I eased off the throttle, my eyes scanning the gauges by the dim glow of the dash light. Everything looked green. I pulled the clutch in, letting the engine revs drop to an idle.
The sound didn’t change pitch with the RPMs. It wasn’t the bike.
I slowed to a crawl, the tires hissing against the standing water on the asphalt. I was approaching the massive concrete belly of the highway overpass near mile marker 162. The overhead traffic thundered like distant artillery, sending deep vibrations through the road and into the marrow of my bones. I pulled onto the narrow, gravel-strewn shoulder and killed the ignition.
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the tink-tink-tink of the cooling metal and the steady, hypnotic drum of rain on my helmet. And then, in the gap between the roar of a passing semi-truck, I heard it again.
It wasn’t the wind. It was a cry.
It was a jagged, desperate sound, the kind of noise a living thing makes when it has reached the absolute end of its rope and realized no one is coming. It was coming from somewhere deep beneath the embankment, where the massive concrete support pillars met the earth in a tangle of rusted rebar, discarded tires, and dead weeds.
“Hello?” I called out. My voice sounded thin and alien against the backdrop of the storm.
No answer. Just that sob—hiccuping, wet, and terrifyingly small.
I reached into my left saddlebag and pulled out my old, battered Maglite. The heavy aluminum felt familiar in my hand. I clicked it on, and the beam cut a violent white hole through the gloom, reflecting off oily puddles and the jagged edges of broken beer bottles. Every instinct I had honed over forty-five years told me to get back on the bike and keep riding. In this part of the state, the shadows under the bridges usually belonged to people who didn’t want to be found, or things that were better left alone.
But I kept thinking about Sarah. She was the kind of woman who would stop traffic for a turtle or spend her last twenty bucks on a bag of birdseed in the middle of winter. She used to say that the world was hard enough without us turning our backs on the things that couldn’t ask for help.
“Is someone down there?” I shouted again, stepping off the bike and onto the slick grass of the embankment.
The crying changed. It transitioned from a rhythmic sob to a frantic, wet scratching. A small, muddy shape shifted in the periphery of my light, right where the concrete foundation disappeared into the mud. I felt a cold chill that had nothing to do with the Ohio rain. It was the feeling of a door opening in the dark—a door you can’t close once you’ve looked inside.
Chapter 2: The Concrete Grave
The slope down to the base of the overpass was a treacherous mess of wet clay and rotted leaf litter. I slid more than I walked, my heavy engineer boots losing purchase. I went down hard once, my knee slamming into a rock, but I didn’t stop. By the time I reached the bottom, my jeans were soaked to the hip and my palms were scraped raw from catching myself on the jagged debris.
The space beneath the bridge was a cathedral of neglect. Massive concrete pillars rose up like the legs of a dead giant, covered in layers of spray-painted tags—neon names of kids who had probably grown up and moved away, and symbols I didn’t care to understand. The air here was different. It smelled of damp earth, ancient exhaust, and something sharp and metallic, like old blood or rusted iron.
“I’m not gonna hurt you,” I said, my voice firmer now, trying to project a calm I didn’t feel. I gripped the Maglite like a club, the beam sweeping the darkness.
I followed the sound toward a narrow gap between two support columns. There was a crawlspace there, a hollowed-out void where the dirt had eroded away from the foundation. It was barely eighteen inches high, a dark slit in the world. The scratching was frantic now, a desperate digging sound that made my skin crawl.
I dropped to my knees, feeling the cold mud soak through the fabric of my work pants. I leaned down, clicking the flashlight into its brightest setting, and shoved the beam into the hole.
I froze. My breath hitched in my chest.
Two eyes reflected the light—wide, amber, and clouded with an agonizing level of terror. It was a dog. A Golden Retriever, or at least she had been once. Now, she was a skeletal wreck. Her fur was a matted, greyish-brown mess, clinging to a frame so thin I could see the sharp ridges of her spine and the individual arcs of every rib. She was backed into the furthest, darkest corner of the crawlspace, her head low, her body shaking with such violence that her teeth were literally chattering against each other.
But she wasn’t the one making the noise.
Tucked beneath her chin, shielded by her bony chest and her one functioning front leg, was a tiny, white-and-black ball of fur. A puppy. It couldn’t have been more than four weeks old. Its eyes weren’t even fully open yet, but its mouth was wide, letting out those sharp, rhythmic yips I’d heard from the road.
As the light hit them, the mother dog didn’t growl. She didn’t snap or show her teeth. She just looked at me with a gaze so heavy with grief and resignation that I felt the air leave my lungs. It was a look I recognized. I’d seen it in the mirror every morning for three years. It was the look of someone who had given up on being saved.
“Hey, girl,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’m a friend.”
I reached out a hand, palm up, the way Sarah used to do with the rescues she’d bring home from the county shelter. The mother dog flinched, pulling the puppy closer with a weak, trembling paw. That’s when I saw the cruelty of it. Tied around her neck was a piece of heavy-duty, orange nylon rope. It wasn’t a leash. It was a tether, and the other end was looped tightly around a piece of jagged rebar protruding from the deep concrete of the foundation.
She hadn’t wandered here for shelter. Someone had dragged her into this hole, tied her to the bridge, and left her to die in the dark.
My blood turned to ice, then to fire. I’ve seen some mean things in my time—I’ve worked in some rough shops and ridden with some hard men—but this was a different kind of evil. This was calculated.
And then, as I moved the flashlight beam to find a way to cut the rope, the light caught something else.
Partially buried in the loose, dry dirt the dog had been desperately scratching at was a small, red leather wallet. It was a woman’s wallet, the kind that looks like a clutch. It was expensive, or it had been before the mud got to it. A designer logo sparkled weakly under the grime.
My heart began to hammer against my ribs. My mind raced through the local news segments I’d caught on the radio at the shop. Missing. Missing. Missing. There had been a girl from Bellville, a nursing student who hadn’t come home after her shift three weeks ago.
The mother dog let out a low, mournful whine. With a final, agonizing effort, she nudged the puppy toward me with her nose. She wasn’t asking for food. She wasn’t asking for herself. She was giving him away. She was choosing his life over her final moments of companionship.
I reached into the dark, my fingers brushing against the puppy’s damp fur. He was cold—dangerously cold. I tucked him inside my heavy leather jacket, right against the heat of my chest. The mother dog watched me, her tail giving one single, pathetic thump against the dirt.
Then, her eyes rolled back, and her head fell heavily onto her paws.
“No, no, no,” I breathed, lunging further into the hole, oblivious to the mud and the filth. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare leave him.”
I grabbed the red wallet, shoved it into my inner pocket, and pulled my pocket knife. I began the frantic work of sawing through that orange nylon rope. The rain outside turned into a literal deluge, the sound of the highway above now a deafening roar.
I didn’t hear the car pull up. I didn’t see the headlights cut through the trees. But as the rope finally snapped, a bright, powerful spotlight swept down from the road above, illuminating the mud and the pillars in a harsh, clinical glare.
Chapter 3: The Shadow on the Ridge
I froze, my hand still gripping the frayed end of the rope. The puppy was a warm, vibrating weight against my ribs, his tiny heart beating like a hummingbird’s. The mother dog was a dead weight in the mud, her breathing so shallow I couldn’t tell if she was still with me.
The spotlight from above wasn’t moving. It was fixed on the area where I’d parked my Fat Boy.
I leaned back, tucking myself further into the shadows of the concrete pillar. My heart was a drum in my ears. In Ohio, you learn pretty quick that the only thing more dangerous than a predator is a man who thinks he’s being watched.
“Hey!” A voice boomed from the top of the embankment. It was deep, gravelly, and carried the practiced authority of someone used to being obeyed. “Who’s down there?”
I didn’t answer. I reached out and stroked the mother dog’s head. Her skin was like parchment over bone. I needed to get her out. I needed to get her to a vet, or at least somewhere warm. But the man on the ridge wasn’t moving.
I heard the heavy thunk of a car door closing. Then, the sound of boots crunching on the gravel shoulder.
I recognized that silhouette against the rainy sky. It was a wide-shouldered man in a long coat. He wasn’t wearing a uniform, but he moved with a military stiffness. He started down the embankment, his own flashlight beam cutting through the rain. This wasn’t a casual passerby. This was someone coming back to check on his work.
I felt a surge of pure, unadulterated rage. I looked at the dog—this beautiful, broken creature who had been left to starve while her puppy cried for help—and then I looked at the red wallet in my pocket.
The man was halfway down the slope now. “I know you’re there,” he called out. “I saw the bike. That’s a nice Harley. Be a shame if something happened to it.”
I realized then that he couldn’t see me yet. The pillars were thick, and the angle of the bridge created a labyrinth of shadows. I shifted my weight, trying to find a way to carry the mother dog. She was probably sixty pounds of dead weight, but in her current state, she felt like lead.
I grabbed her by the scruff and under her haunches, gritting my teeth as I pulled her out of the crawlspace. She let out a soft, pained wheeze but didn’t resist. I dragged her behind the widest pillar, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
The man reached the bottom of the slope. He stopped about twenty feet away, his flashlight beam scanning the tags on the concrete. “Come on out, biker. Let’s have a chat. You’re trespassing on private property. The county doesn’t like people poking around under here.”
Private property? This was a state highway. The lie was as thin as the dog’s skin.
I knew this man. Not by name, but by reputation. He was Ray Vance—people called him “The Ghost.” He was a “fixer” for some of the less-than-reputable land developers in the county. He was the guy you called when you had a problem that needed to disappear.
I looked down at the mother dog. Her eyes fluttered open for a second, catching the stray light. She looked at me, and for a fleeting moment, the terror was gone, replaced by a silent plea.
I realized I couldn’t take him. Not while carrying a dying dog and a puppy. I wasn’t twenty anymore, and I didn’t have a weapon other than a three-inch folding knife. But I had the bike. And I had the wallet.
“Vance!” I yelled, my voice echoing off the concrete.
The flashlight beam snapped toward my pillar.
“I’ve got the wallet!” I shouted. “And I’ve got the dog. If you want them, you’re gonna have to catch me.”
I didn’t wait for a reply. I didn’t wait to see if he had a gun. I heaved the mother dog over my shoulder in a fireman’s carry, the puppy tucked securely in my zipped-up jacket. I sprinted. Not back up the embankment toward the Harley—that was a death trap—but deeper into the woods that lined the riverbed beneath the bridge.
“Hey! Get back here!” Vance roared.
I heard the heavy footfalls behind me. I heard the brush breaking. I ran with a strength I didn’t know I still had, fueled by a mixture of grief for my wife and a burning need to make sure this dog saw another sunrise.
The woods were a nightmare of thorns and mud. Every step was a gamble. The mother dog was slipping, her weight shifting, but I clamped my arm down harder. The puppy let out a muffled yelp against my chest.
I hit the edge of the Mohican River, the water swollen and brown from the rain. I didn’t stop. I plunged in, the cold water hitting my waist like a hammer blow. I waded across, the current tugging at my legs, trying to pull me under.
When I reached the other side, I scrambled up the bank and collapsed into a thicket of pine trees. I stayed perfectly still, my heart hammering so hard I thought it would crack a rib.
Across the river, I saw the beam of Vance’s flashlight. He stood at the water’s edge, cursing. He didn’t follow. He knew the terrain, and he knew that in this rain, tracks wouldn’t last five minutes.
He stayed there for a long time, the light sweeping the trees. Then, finally, the light vanished.
I lay there in the mud, shivering, holding a dying dog and a tiny puppy. I pulled the red wallet out and opened it. Inside, tucked behind a driver’s license for a girl named Clara Mitchell, was a folded piece of paper with a hand-drawn map and a single word written in shaking script: HELP.
I looked at the mother dog. She was still breathing. Just barely.
“Hang on, girl,” I whispered. “We’re going to finish this.”
Chapter 4: The Midnight Sanctuary
The world was a blur of freezing water and adrenaline. I didn’t head back for the bike. I knew Vance would be watching it, a hunter waiting for the prey to return to its nest. Instead, I hiked two miles through the dense, tangled undergrowth of the Mohican forest, the mother dog’s weight becoming a crushing burden on my shoulders. Every few minutes, I’d stop to check the puppy inside my jacket. He was a small, frantic heartbeat against my own, his tiny whimpers muffled by the leather.
I emerged onto a backroad near Butler, my boots squelching with every step. I needed a miracle, and in this county, miracles usually looked like a neon “Open” sign at a dive bar or the flickering porch light of someone who still believed in the Good Book.
I found the latter. A small, weathered farmhouse sat tucked behind a screen of weeping willows. In the driveway was an old Chevy truck with a “Retired Vet” sticker on the bumper.
I didn’t knock. I pounded.
The door opened to reveal Elias Thorne, a man who looked like he was carved out of an old oak stump. He was seventy if he was a day, with eyes that had seen too much war and too many dying animals. He looked at me—mud-caked, bleeding, and carrying a skeletal dog—and didn’t ask a single damn question.
“In the kitchen. On the table,” he barked.
The next three hours were a fever dream of sterile smells and desperate prayers. Elias worked with a grim, silent efficiency. He hooked the mother dog—who I’d started calling ‘Goldie’ in my head—up to an IV of warm fluids. He cleaned the raw, infected line where the rope had chafed her neck down to the muscle.
The puppy, meanwhile, was tucked into a shoebox lined with warm towels near the radiator. I’d fed him some formula Elias had in the back, watching the little guy lap it up with a ferocity that broke my heart.
“She’s severely malnourished, dehydrated, and septic,” Elias said, wiping his hands on a blood-stained apron. He looked at me, his gaze settling on the red wallet sitting on his kitchen counter. “Someone didn’t just forget about her, Jim. Someone wanted her to suffer.”
“I know,” I said, my voice sounding like it had been dragged over gravel. “I found her under the I-71 bridge. Someone tied her there.”
Elias went still. He walked over to the counter and picked up the red wallet. He flipped it open, staring at the driver’s license of Clara Mitchell.
“Jim,” Elias whispered, his face turning a ghostly shade of grey. “Clara Mitchell wasn’t just some girl who went missing. She was the whistleblower for the Mansfield Creek Development project. She was supposed to testify about the toxic runoff they were dumping into the river. My son… he was the lawyer helping her.”
The room felt like it was spinning. This wasn’t just a random act of cruelty. This was a message.
Chapter 5: Fragments of a Nightmare
I sat at Elias’s kitchen table, a mug of black coffee between my shaking hands. The puppy, now warm and full, had fallen into a deep, twitching sleep in his box. Goldie was still on the table, her breathing finally rhythmic, though painfully thin.
I opened the red wallet again. I pulled out the folded piece of paper I’d seen earlier. It wasn’t just a map; it was a blueprint. It showed the foundation of the new luxury condos being built near the river—the very project Clara had been fighting.
There was a red “X” marked near the north pillar of the bridge where I’d found the dogs. And underneath it, in that same frantic, shaking script: They didn’t just dump the chemicals. They buried her.
The weight of it hit me like a physical blow. The mother dog hadn’t just been left to die. She was the guardian of a grave. Vance had tied her there, likely thinking she’d be a deterrent or that her cries would be ignored as “ghosts” under the bridge. Or maybe he just had a sick sense of poetic justice.
“If Clara is under that bridge,” I said, looking at Elias, “then Vance is going to come for whoever has this wallet. He saw me. He knows what I look like.”
“He knows your bike,” Elias corrected. “But he doesn’t know you’re here. Not yet.”
But as if the universe wanted to prove him wrong, a low, guttural rumble vibrated through the floorboards. It wasn’t thunder. It was the sound of a heavy engine idling at the end of the driveway.
I doused the kitchen light.
Elias moved to the window, peeling back the curtain just an inch. “Black SUV. No plates. He must have tracked the mud from your boots on the road.”
“Get Goldie and the pup into the cellar,” I whispered, reaching for the heavy iron skillet on the stove. It was a pathetic weapon, but it was all I had. “Now, Elias.”
“What about you?”
“I’m the distraction,” I said. “He wants the wallet. He thinks I’m just a biker who stumbled into the wrong hole. He doesn’t know I’ve got nothing left to lose.”
I felt a strange, cold calm wash over me. For three years, I’d been a ghost, haunting my own life. But looking at that tiny puppy and the broken mother dog who had fought so hard to keep him alive, I felt a spark of the man Sarah had loved. A man who stood his ground.
Chapter 6: The Noose Tightens
The back door creaked as Elias disappeared into the cellar with the dogs. I stood in the dark kitchen, the only light coming from the pale moon struggling through the clouds.
The front door didn’t just open; it exploded inward.
Ray Vance stepped into the house, his silhouette framed by the rain and the headlights of his SUV. He held a suppressed pistol in his right hand, the barrel looking like a black finger pointed at my soul.
“Give me the wallet, Jim,” he said. His voice was conversational, almost bored. “You’ve made a lot of work for me tonight. Crossing the river? That was a nice touch. But you’re tired. I can see your hands shaking from here.”
“Where’s Clara?” I asked, stepping out from behind the counter. I kept the wallet in my left hand, visible.
Vance laughed, a dry, rattling sound. “Clara is part of the infrastructure now. She’s contributing to the growth of this fine county. And soon, you and those mutts will be right there with her. It’s a shame. I actually like Harleys.”
He leveled the gun at my chest.
“The dog,” I said, my voice steady. “Why tie her there? Why not just kill her?”
Vance shrugged. “Sentimental value. She was Clara’s dog. I thought it was fitting they stayed together. Besides, I wanted to see how long a creature like that could last on nothing but hope. Turns out, about three weeks.”
That was it. That was the moment the last of my restraint snapped.
I didn’t lung for him. I threw the red wallet—not at him, but toward the wood-burning stove in the corner of the room.
Vance’s eyes flickered toward the flying leather for a split second. It was the only opening I needed. I swung the cast-iron skillet with every ounce of grief and rage I’d been carrying since Sarah’s funeral.
The heavy metal connected with the side of his head with a sickening crack. Vance went down like a sack of stones, the gun skittering across the linoleum floor.
I didn’t stop. I was on top of him in an instant, my hands around his throat. I wasn’t a hero. I was a man who had seen the bottom of the world and decided he didn’t like the view.
“She survived,” I hissed into his ear as he struggled for breath. “The dog survived. And so did the puppy. They’re going to be the ones who watch them dig you out of the dirt.”
I heard the sirens then—faint, but growing louder. Elias hadn’t just gone to the cellar; he’d hit the silent alarm he kept for his veterinary narcotics.
Vance’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he went limp. I slumped back against the kitchen cabinets, the red wallet lying safely on the floor, the secret of Clara Mitchell finally out in the light.
I looked toward the cellar door. I could hear the puppy starting to cry again. It was a beautiful, demanding sound. It was the sound of something that intended to live.
Chapter 7: The Weight of the Rain
The blue and red lights of the Richland County Sheriff’s cruisers fractured the rain into a strobe light of justice. I sat on the porch of Elias’s farmhouse, a heavy wool blanket draped over my shivering shoulders, watching as they hauled Ray Vance out in zip-ties. He was conscious now, but the arrogant “Ghost” had evaporated, replaced by a man staring at the ground, realizing his world had just collapsed under the weight of a red leather wallet and a starving dog.
Sheriff Miller, a man I’d shared coffee with at the diner more than a few times, walked over to me. He tipped his hat, his face etched with a grim kind of respect.
“We found her, Jim,” Miller said softly. “Right where the map said. Under the north pillar. They’d poured a fresh slab of concrete over her two weeks ago.”
I closed my eyes. The image of the mother dog, tied to that very pillar, scratching at the dirt until her paws bled, flashed through my mind. She hadn’t been scratching for food. She hadn’t been trying to escape. She was trying to get to her person. Even as she was starving, even as her body was failing, her only instinct was to stay close to the girl who had loved her.
“The dog saved her,” I whispered. “The dog made sure she wasn’t forgotten.”
Miller nodded, looking toward the house. “And you saved the dog. Forensics says if you hadn’t pulled them out tonight, neither of them would have made it through the storm. That puppy was hours away from fading.”
Inside the kitchen, the chaos of the investigation felt miles away. I walked back in to find Elias sitting on the floor by the radiator. Goldie—the mother dog—had her head in his lap. Her tail, once a limp string in the mud, gave a tiny, hesitant wag when she saw me.
I knelt beside her, ignoring the ache in my joints. I reached out, and this time, she didn’t flinch. She leaned her scarred, matted head into my hand, let out a long, shuddering sigh, and finally closed her eyes. It wasn’t the sleep of the dying anymore. It was the sleep of the safe.
Tucked into the curve of her belly, the puppy was a tiny furnace of life, his black-and-white fur beginning to dry into a soft fluff. He let out a small, muffled bark in his sleep, his paws paddling against the air.
Chapter 8: The Road Home
Six months later, the Ohio spring had finally pushed the grey of winter aside. The fields around Bellville were a vibrant, electric green, and the air smelled of damp earth and blooming clover.
I was in my garage, the door rolled up to let in the morning sun. The ’98 Fat Boy was gleaming, the chrome reflecting the light so brightly it hurt to look at. I was tightening the bolts on the sissy bar when I felt a cold, wet nose press against my elbow.
“Hold on, Scout,” I laughed, patting the young dog’s head.
The puppy wasn’t a ball of fur anymore. He was a lanky, energetic teenager with one floppy ear and a tail that never stopped moving. He had a habit of “helping” me work on the bike by stealing my 10mm wrenches, but I didn’t mind.
Behind him, walking with a slight limp but with her head held high, was Goldie. Her coat had grown back thick and honey-colored, the scars on her neck hidden beneath a sturdy leather collar—blue, the color Sarah always liked.
She walked over to the corner of the garage where Sarah’s old gardening bench still sat. She lay down in the patch of sunlight, letting out a satisfied groan. She was the matriarch of the house now. She’d claimed the silence I used to hate and filled it with the sound of her rhythmic breathing and the occasional thud of her tail against the floor.
I stood up, wiping my greasy hands on a rag. For the first time in three years, the house didn’t feel like a museum. It felt like a home again. I still missed Sarah every single hour of every single day, but the grief didn’t feel like a weight crushing my chest anymore. It felt like a passenger—someone I carried with me as I moved forward, instead of someone I was trying to stay behind with.
I checked my phone. Clara Mitchell’s family had called earlier. They’d finally been able to lay her to rest properly, and they wanted me to come by for lunch. They wanted to see Goldie. They needed to see that something of Clara had survived the dark.
I swung my leg over the Harley and kicked the engine to life. The roar was a familiar comfort, but I didn’t need it to drown out my thoughts anymore.
“Stay, Goldie. Guard the house,” I said.
She gave me a single, authoritative bark. Scout tried to jump onto the bike, but I nudged him back.
“Not today, kid. Maybe when you’re older.”
As I pulled out of the driveway and onto the open road, I looked back in the rearview mirror. The two of them were standing there in the sun, watching me go. I thought about that night under the bridge—the rain, the mud, and the moment I almost kept riding.
The world is full of shadows, and it’s easy to believe that the things crying out from the dark are beyond saving. But sometimes, all it takes is one person to stop, one person to crawl into the mud, and one pair of tiny paws reaching out to remind you that you’re still human.
I twisted the throttle, the wind hitting my face, and for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t riding away from anything. I was just riding.
If you found a helpless animal in a dangerous situation, but helping them meant putting your own life at risk, would you walk away or dive in?
