I’ve been riding along Rural Route 12 for over twenty years, and in all that time, I’d never seen a kid walking alone out there. It’s just endless fields, fences, and the occasional truck roaring past. So when I saw a small figure trudging along the gravel shoulder, head down, I knew something was wrong even before I pulled over. I cut the engine on my Harley. The boy flinched at the sound, as if expecting trouble. I’m a big man — bald, gray beard, leather vest patched from years on the road — not exactly the friendliest sight for...
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