12/09/2025
Bikers... you can’t just take her home because you feel responsible.
I was thirty-eight when I pulled that girl out of that burning car. I was riding back from work when I saw the smoke and hit the brakes hard. I yanked the door open, unbuckled her fast, and carried her out before the flames climbed higher. The crews tried to reach her parents, but they didn’t make it. She held my vest like she wasn’t letting go. I followed the ambulance on my bike.
The next days were meetings, forms, and folks telling me to step back. I kept coming anyway. She reached for me every time I showed up. That was enough. When no relatives stepped forward, I signed the papers and took her home. Bought a car seat. Packed lunches. Sat through school meetings. Worked every shift I could.
She grew into Avery—sharp, steady, focused. She trained hard, passed every test, and said she wanted to serve the town that gave her a second chance. She made it into the academy and earned her badge clean.
Twenty-five years later, she pinned it on and looked at me.
Dad… you saved me...
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