I’ve ridden motorcycles for 45 years through every kind of weather, dodging deer, drunk drivers, and blown tires—but nothing prepared me for that night on Interstate 40.
Just after midnight, as the highway stretched empty and silent, I saw a glint in my headlight. At first, I thought it was an animal. Closer, I realized it was a toddler—barely eighteen months old—crawling across the asphalt in just a diaper and a heavy dog collar with a chain dragging behind her.
I slammed on the brakes, skidding to a stop just yards away. Cars sped past without stopping. Her tiny hands were raw, her knees bleeding. When she saw me, she crawled toward the light, toward me. I scooped her up, feeling the tremble of fear and cold. She was covered in dirt, bruises, and fresh cigarette burns. The chain had been ripped from somewhere she’d been tied.
I wrapped her in my jacket and called 911. Highway patrol arrived in what felt like forever. They confirmed she was only minutes from serious harm. Later, I learned she’d escaped her mother’s abusive boyfriend, who’d been living in a makeshift shed nearby. He was caught trying to flee the state, and the girl was safe with her mother.
A few weeks later, her mom sent me a handwritten letter, thanking me for saving their lives. I keep it in my wallet as a reminder: sometimes the real monsters aren’t hiding—they’re right next door, and all it takes is one person noticing to prevent tragedy.
Now, every time I ride, I scan the road carefully. Because sometimes, the thing in the dark isn’t debris or an animal—it’s someone’s entire life waiting to be saved.