I was just a man on the road that night. A long ride from Colorado back toward Missouri after my brother’s funeral. Twelve hours on the highway, tired, numb, and just looking for a cup of coffee and a moment to breathe. I didn’t know that stop would change two lives forever.
The gas station was quiet, somewhere outside Kansas City. Three in the morning. Fluorescent lights flickering over empty pumps. I pulled my Harley beside the curb and walked toward the restroom, thinking only about caffeine and sleep.
Then I heard voices.
Three men talking in the next room — their tone sharp, their words uneasy. And then another voice — a young one — frightened, pleading. That sound froze me. You don’t forget that tone.
Something was wrong. I couldn’t just leave.
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