I stood up from my bike, pretending to search my leather jacket for a cleaning rag.
As she passed close to my front tire, her hand flicked outward, brushing against my sleeve. A small, crumpled piece of paper dropped into my open hand.
“She just handed me this and walked away,” I muttered under my breath, watching her run back to the idling van without looking behind her.
The side door of the van slid shut with a heavy thud, but the vehicle remained parked at the edge of the asphalt.
I walked back to the space between our two motorcycles, using the wide windshield of David’s bike to block myself from the van’s side mirrors. My palm felt hot where the paper rested.
I unfolded the rough paper, flattening the creases against the cold metal of my gas tank.
On the back of a standard highway gas receipt, written in thick, shaky strokes of a pink crayon, were three words and a phone number.
Help Georgia Sarah.
The area code on the scribbled number was one I did not recognize, but the desperation in those wax letters was plain.
