“That’s not always possible—”
Tank stepped forward, all six-foot-four of him, voice calm but immovable. “Ma’am, that little girl has been the only caregiver that baby’s had. You split them up now, you’ll break both of them.”
More bikes rolled in. Word spreads fast in a club. Within an hour, the parking lot was packed with Iron Guardians. Leather vests, patches, engines idling like a wall.
The social worker looked overwhelmed, like she’d walked into a scene she didn’t have a protocol for. “This is complex—”
“No,” I said. “It’s simple. Safe placement. Together. Tonight.”
Our club had contacts for exactly this. Jim and Martha Rodriguez—licensed foster parents and the kind of people you trust with your life. I told the social worker their names. Doc confirmed the baby was dehydrated and malnourished but stable.
Emily cried again, but this time it was relief. The kind that comes when your body realizes you don’t have to hold the world up alone anymore.
