far worse terrain than a Georgia back road. They had no idea. Hope’s hands clenched at her sides. Her mouth went dry. Every instinct told her to run. Not away, but toward them. To scream, to grab the map and tear it up, to do something, anything, before those fifteen motorcycles rolled onto a bridge that couldn’t hold a bicycle.
But another voice, the voice of Grayville, the voice of every person who’d ever looked through her like glass, whispered something else. They won’t believe you. They never do. She thought about Earl’s flashlight, about Eleanor’s voice saying the same thing every night before bed. Do the right thing, baby, even when it costs you. Hope stepped out of the shadow and started walking toward the gas station. She had no proof, no phone, no credibility, just the truth and two bare feet on hot asphalt. It would have to be enough. She reached the gas station in under a minute, but it felt like crossing a minefield. Every step brought her closer to fifteen strangers and further from the only safety she understood. Silence. Invisibility. The comfort of being no one.
Hope stopped at the edge of the parking lot. The bikers were clustered near the fuel pumps, checking tire pressure, passing around bottles of water, laughing about something Craig had said. They were loud, relaxed, completely unaware. She took a breath. Then she walked straight into the middle of them. You can’t take that bridge. Craig turned first. He looked her up and down. The matted hair, the oversized jacket with a torn sleeve, the bare feet black with road dust. His lip curled. Excuse me? The Millbrook bridge on Route 9. Three men cut the support beams last night with an angle grinder. I watched them do it. If you ride across, the whole thing collapses.
For a moment, nobody spoke. Then Craig laughed. Not a kind laugh, the sharp dismissive kind that’s designed to make someone feel small. Lady, I don’t know what you’re on, but I’m not on anything. Hope’s voice cracked, but she held her ground. I sleep under that bridge. I was there. I heard them talking. The guy who planned it, his name is Wade Thornton. He owns the bar on Creston Avenue. He said fifteen bikes at full speed and the bridge wouldn’t hold past the first three. Craig shook his head. Tommy, you know this girl? Tommy Connelly, the gas station attendant, leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed. That’s the homeless one. Lives under the bridge. She’s not all there, if you know what I mean. I’m standing right here, Hope said quietly.
Sweetheart, Craig stepped closer, towering over her. We’ve been riding for six days. We’ve got a memorial to get to in Memphis. I’m not rerouting because some kid who sleeps in the dirt had a bad dream. A few bikers shifted uncomfortably. One rubbed the back of