A biker followed my teenage daughter for three miles, and I called the police with hands shaking so badly I could barely hold my phone.
Emma was crying on the other end of the line, her words tumbling over each other as she tried to keep her breathing steady and her eyes on the road. She was driving our dented old Honda—the one with the cracked side mirror and the engine that rattled when it went over sixty. Behind her, she said, was a massive man on a Harley. Loud. Close. Relentless.
“He won’t stop, Mom,” she sobbed. “He’s right there. Every turn I take, he takes. I don’t know what to do.”
My stomach dropped so fast it felt like free fall. I pictured her alone in that car, hands gripping the wheel, knuckles white. I pictured the biker the way any parent would—bearded, broad-shouldered, leather vest covered in patches, engine roaring like a warning. A threat.
“Stay on the phone with me,” I said, forcing my voice into something calm and steady while panic clawed at my chest. “I’m calling 911 right now. Don’t stop driving. Head straight to the police station.”
I was twenty minutes away at work. Twenty minutes of helplessness. Twenty minutes where anything could happen. My sixteen-year-old daughter was being followed, possibly hunted, and all I could do was listen to her fear through a phone.
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