I first noticed her on Tuesday morning at my usual diner—a little girl, maybe nine, sitting alone in a booth by the window, staring at me. By the time I left, she was standing next to my Harley in the parking lot.
“Can I help you, sweetheart?” I asked.
She shook her head and walked away.
The next day, she appeared at the grocery store, hiding behind the produce section. Thursday, she was outside the VA hospital where I volunteer. Friday, across from my house, staring at my front door.
I’m sixty-seven. Vietnam vet. Forty-five years riding. Gray beard to my chest. Covered in tattoos. And this little girl following me? Terrifying.
I finally crossed the street and crouched to her level. “Are you in trouble? Do your parents know where you are?”
Her solemn brown eyes met mine. “You don’t know me, but you knew my dad. He made me promise to find you if anything happened to him.”
My heart stopped.
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