His name was **Everett Knox**.
At forty-four, Everett looked like a man carved from storm clouds and old pain. He was bald, broad-shouldered, and built like he could lift the motorcycle with one hand. A thick brown beard covered most of his face. **Black-and-gray tattoos curled over both muscular arms**, disappearing beneath a worn leather vest stitched with motorcycle club patches most strangers were smart enough not to stare at.
People avoided him without realizing they were doing it.
Truckers glanced away. Tourists gave him space. Parents pulled children closer.
But Junie ran right to him.
Everett noticed her only when she stopped directly in front of his boots.
The little girl tilted her head all the way back, studying him with huge, serious eyes. Then she reached out and gently tugged on his leather chaps.
“Mister,” she asked loudly, “**are you a bear?**”
The gas station froze.
Everett did too.
The nozzle hung forgotten in his hand. His mouth opened slightly, but no words came out.
Claire reached them breathless, terror clawing up her throat. “Junie, get away from—”