I grabbed my spare helmet from the saddlebag—a smaller, three-quarter lid I kept for emergencies. I secured it over Peter’s head, tightening the chin strap beneath his chin. He let me do it without a fight, completely pliable, like a ghost trapped in a child’s body. I swung my leg over the heavy bike, kicked up the stand, and tapped the seat behind me.
“Climb on. Hold tight to my waist. Do not let go.”
He scrambled up, locking his thin arms around me. His grip was remarkably strong, driven entirely by adrenaline. I fired up the engine, relishing the deep, violent roar of the exhaust, and dumped the clutch. We rocketed forward onto the paved highway, leaving the crossroads behind. I pushed the bike hard, ignoring the speed limit, needing miles between us and that dirt road.
We rode for twenty minutes until the endless fields gave way to a small, decaying strip of civilization—a gas station, a rusted water tower, and a solitary diner boasting a neon sign that had long since burned out. The parking lot was mostly empty. Perfect.
I pulled the bike around the back, parking it out of sight behind the diner’s grease dumpster. I helped Peter down. He could barely stand, his knees buckling, but I caught him by his elbow, supporting his slight weight.
We walked into the diner through the back entrance. The cool blast of the air conditioning hit me instantly. The place was a relic of the seventies—cracked vinyl booths, a faded checkerboard floor, and the heavy smell of stale coffee and bacon grease. An older waitress behind the counter looked up, her expression turning immediately skeptical at the sight of a massive biker in road leathers supporting a bruised, filthy child.
Before she could speak, I pulled a crumpled twenty-dollar bill from my pocket and laid it flat on the counter.
“The biggest plate of fries you have, a cheeseburger, and a large milk,” I said, meeting her suspicious gaze. “And a black coffee for me. Booth in the far corner.”
She silently took the bill and turned to the grill. I guided Peter to the most secluded booth, positioning myself so I had a clear line of sight to both the front door and the back exit.
When the food arrived, Peter practically inhaled it. It was horrifying to watch. He ate with the manic desperation of a starving animal, shoving the fries into his mouth with both hands. It gave me a moment to actually study him.
As he reached for his glass of milk, the fluorescent lighting caught his hands. I felt a cold knot form in my stomach.
The first time I saw his hands, I noticed the chemical burns. But looking closer, the reality was much worse. His small fingers were heavily blistered, the skin cracked and peeling from severe exposure to something highly caustic. Fertilizer, maybe industrial-grade pesticide. But it was the calluses that truly disturbed me. Thick, hard ridges of dead skin lined his palms, the kind of heavy wear you only see on men who have swung a pickaxe for forty years.
This wasn’t a kid doing a few farm chores on the weekend. This kid had been subjected to brutal, unrelenting manual labor.
“Peter,” I said softly. He froze, a fry halfway to his mouth, his eyes darting to my face like I had just struck him.
“It’s okay, eat,” I assured him, keeping my hands flat and visible on the table. “I’m not going to hurt you. My name is Hawk. You want to tell me where you got those burns?”
He looked down at his hands, pulling his sleeves over his knuckles in a vain attempt to hide them. He didn’t answer.
“George said you were his grandson,” I continued, keeping my tone conversational. “Is that true?”
Peter aggressively shook his head. “No,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “I’ve never met him before they brought me.”
“Who is they?”
Peter opened his mouth to answer, but before he could speak, the distinct crunch of tires pulling rapidly into the gravel parking lot cut through the quiet diner.
Through the cracked window blinds, I saw the flashing light bar of a county sheriff’s patrol SUV. The vehicle came to an abrupt halt right in front of the main doors. A moment later, a deputy stepped out. He was tall, thin, wearing a crisp tan uniform and a wide-brimmed Stetson. But my eyes went straight to his feet.
His polished duty boots were caked with fresh, bright red clay.
The dirt at the crossroads was pale brown gravel. The soil out here by the diner was dry, gray dust. I knew the local geology well enough from my rides; the only place in Oakhaven County with heavy red clay was the eastern ridge. The exact location of the Miller farm.
The deputy walked inside, his hand resting casually on the butt of his service weapon. The small bell above the door chimed cheerfully.
The waitress behind the counter immediately straightened up. “Afternoon, Deputy Rollins.”
“Maggie,” the deputy said smoothly, not looking at her. His cold eyes swept the diner, locking onto my leather jacket almost instantly. He smiled, but there was zero warmth in it. It was the smile of a snake eyeing a trapped mouse.