Music could be heard faintly through the walls.
Motorcycles were parked beneath a long awning.
Big motorcycles.
Black.
Chrome.
Machines that looked impossibly expensive and impossibly dangerous.
Eli remembered Mr. Alvarez.
The mechanic who worked two buildings down from their apartment.
Once, when Eli had asked about the Iron Vale Riders, Mr. Alvarez laughed.
“Those guys?”
“Are they bad?”
“Some of them probably used to be.”
Eli waited.
Mr. Alvarez wiped grease from his hands.
“But listen to me, kid. If you're ever in real trouble in this town, don't judge those men by the leather. Half the respectable people in Briar Glen wouldn't stop if you were bleeding on the sidewalk.”
He nodded toward a Rider passing on the street.
“Those guys would.”
At the time, Eli had forgotten the conversation almost immediately.
Tonight, it was the only hope he had left.
He crossed the street.
Every step toward the clubhouse made his heart beat faster.
What if Mr. Alvarez had been wrong?
What if they were drunk?
What if they were dangerous?
What if they called the county?
What if they didn't?
Daisy coughed.
Eli climbed the wooden steps.
Warm yellow light glowed beneath the door.
His hand hovered over the handle.
“Eli?”
“Yeah?”
“I'm really cold.”
He opened the door.
Warmth hit him first.
Then sound.
Laughter.
A television.
Pool balls clicking.
Classic rock playing through old speakers.
A dozen conversations layered over one another.
Then the door slammed against the wall behind Eli.
Every conversation stopped.
Nearly twenty faces turned.
Eli froze.
The room was larger than he expected.
Wooden walls.
Old photographs.
Motorcycle parts mounted like trophies.
An iron stove glowing orange in one corner.
Men and women in leather vests sat around tables.
Some were tattooed.
Some had gray beards.
One man had arms almost as thick as Eli's legs.
Nobody moved.
Eli suddenly understood how he must look.
A skinny twelve-year-old dripping water onto their floor.
Carrying a toddler.
Terrified.
He almost ran.
Then Daisy whispered:
“Don't go.”
Eli swallowed.
A man sitting near the stove slowly stood.
He was in his late fifties, broad-shouldered, with gray hair at his temples and a beard that looked as if it had been trimmed with a pocketknife.
Huck Darnell.
President of the Iron Vale Riders.
Eli did not know his name yet.
All he knew was that the largest man in the room was walking toward him.
Eli backed into the door.
“Please.”
Huck stopped.
Eli's voice broke.
“Please don't send us away.”
Nobody laughed.
Nobody asked who they were.
Nobody complained about the water dripping across the floor.
Huck looked at Daisy.
Her bare foot beneath Eli's oversized sock.
Her blue lips.
Then he looked at Eli's shaking arms.
His expression changed.
“You're not leaving tonight.”
Eli stared.
Huck stepped aside.
“Come inside, son.”
Something inside Eli cracked.
Not completely.
He had been holding himself together too long for that.
But enough.
The next sixty seconds moved faster than the previous six hours.
“Rooster, towels.”
A massive biker jumped up.
“Marlene!”
A woman appeared from the kitchen.
“What?”
“Kids.”
She saw them.
“Oh, dear God.”
“Blankets.”
“Already moving.”
Someone closed the door.
Someone added logs to the stove.
Someone brought a chair.
Someone else turned the music down.
A biker named Rooster approached Daisy holding two fuzzy socks.
He was six foot four with a shaved head and a tattoo of a skull across one forearm.
Daisy stared at him.
Rooster stared at Daisy.
“Purple or pink?”
Daisy blinked.
“What?”
“Socks.”
He held them up.
“Purple or pink?”
“Purple.”
“Excellent choice.”
He looked at Eli.
“Permission?”
Eli didn't understand.
“To put socks on her.”
No adult had asked Eli permission for anything all day.
He nodded.
Rooster knelt.
Marlene approached.
“Sweetheart, can I hold your sister while you get warm?”
Eli tightened his grip.
Daisy did too.
Huck noticed.
“Nobody's taking her anywhere.”