A social worker approached, clipboard already out. “We’ll need to place the children—”
“Together,” I cut in.
“That’s not always possible—”
Tank stepped forward, all six-foot-four of him, voice calm but immovable. “Ma’am, that little girl has been the only caregiver that baby’s had. You split them up now, you’ll break both of them.”
More bikes rolled in. Word spreads fast in a club. Within an hour, the parking lot was packed with Iron Guardians. Leather vests, patches, engines idling like a wall.
The social worker looked overwhelmed, like she’d walked into a scene she didn’t have a protocol for. “This is complex—”
“No,” I said. “It’s simple. Safe placement. Together. Tonight.”
Our club had contacts for exactly this. Jim and Martha Rodriguez—licensed foster parents and the kind of people you trust with your life. I told the social worker their names. Doc confirmed the baby was dehydrated and malnourished but stable.
Emily cried again, but this time it was relief. The kind that comes when your body realizes you don’t have to hold the world up alone anymore.
Her aunt regained consciousness while in cuffs and started screaming when she saw Emily.
“Emily! Don’t let them take you! I’m sorry, baby, I’m sorry!”
Emily buried her face in my vest. I rested my hand on her head, gentle. “You’re safe now,” I said.
It took hours to untangle. Reports. Questions. Statements. The paperwork of tragedy.
When Jim and Martha arrived, everything shifted. Martha wrapped Emily in a clean blanket like she’d been waiting for her. Jim took Jamie with careful hands, murmuring to him like he already belonged.
“We’ll take care of them,” Martha promised. “Both of them. Together.”
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