Biker Stopped To Help Girl With A Flat Tire But Caught Something In Car’s Trunk Which Terrified Him

I saw the white sedan on the side of Highway 42 at 11 PM, hazards blinking weakly in the darkness.

At first, I was going to keep riding—it was late, I was tired, and I still had forty miles to get home. But then I saw her in my headlight as I passed.

A teenage girl, maybe fifteen or sixteen, crouched by the rear tire with a tire iron in her hands. She was crying. And she kept looking over her shoulder at the dark woods behind her like something was coming.

I’ve been riding for thirty-eight years. I’m sixty-three years old, a retired firefighter, and I’ve seen enough scared people to recognize pure terror. This girl wasn’t just frustrated about a flat tire. She was absolutely terrified.

I circled back and pulled onto the shoulder about twenty feet behind her car. The moment my headlight hit her, she jumped up and held that tire iron like a weapon. “Stay back!” she screamed. “I have mace!”

I killed my engine and held up both hands. “Easy, sweetheart. I’m just here to help with your tire. I’m not going to hurt you.”

She didn’t lower the tire iron. “I don’t need help. I’m fine. Just leave me alone.”

But she wasn’t fine. She was shaking so hard I could see it from twenty feet away. Her voice cracked when she spoke. And she kept glancing at her trunk.

“Look,” I said, keeping my voice gentle and my hands visible. “I’m a firefighter. Retired. I’ve got a daughter about your age. I’m not leaving a kid alone on a dark highway at midnight. So you can either let me change your tire, or I’m calling the police to come help you. Your choice.”

At the mention of police, her face went white. “No! No police. Please.”

That’s when I knew something was seriously wrong. “Okay,” I said carefully. “No police. But I’m not leaving you here alone either. So let’s just change this tire and get you somewhere safe. Deal?”

She hesitated, still holding that tire iron. Then she looked at my vest—at the American flag patch, the Firefighters MC rocker, the veteran patches. Something in her face changed. “You’re really a firefighter?”

“Twenty-seven years with Station 14. Retired three years ago.” I took a slow step closer. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Madison.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “I’m Madison.”

Continue reading…