Little Girl Texted, “He’s Hitting My Mum’s Arm,” to the Wrong Number — The Hell’s Angel Replied, “I’m On My Way.”

I closed my eyes for half a second. “Okay. That’s good. Stay on the phone with me. We’re coming right now.”

Outside, four Harleys sat in the lot like crouched animals.

We fired them up.

The engines roared into the night, and for the first time in a long time, that sound didn’t feel like a threat. It felt like a promise.

“Do you hear that?” I asked her, wind already snapping my words.

“Yes,” she whispered, awe threaded through fear.

“That’s me and my brothers,” I told her. “We’re on our way.”

And we were.

Maple Creek Lane didn’t look like a place that expected rescue. It looked like a place that had learned to survive without it.

We cut our engines at the curb. The sudden silence after the roar felt like falling into deep water.

I kept the phone against my helmet. “Meera, I’m outside. Front door.”

“I… I locked it,” she said, voice wobbling.

“Good. You did the right thing. Can you unlock it for me? Just the deadbolt. Then step back.”

I heard the scrape of metal. The cautious click.

When the door opened a crack, she was there.