Page 4 of My Ex-Military Biker

"I know."

"Are you going somewhere to do that?"

"Yeah."

She thinks. I can see the calculation happening behind her eyes. Whatever decision she's working through is happening fast but not reckless. She's weighing options she doesn't like against outcomes she likes less.

"How far?" she asks.

"Three miles."

She looks at her car, dead on the side of an empty highway, then looks back at me.

"Can you give me a ride?"

I don't answer immediately.

Her eyes drift to the blood soaking through the edge of the gauze.

"If you're really headed somewhere to deal with that," she says, "I can clean it properly."

"I'll manage."

"Maybe." She meets my eyes again. "But I’m offering."

I look at the wound, then back at her.

"You give me a ride," she says. "I'll patch you up first."

I study her for another second.

"You know what you're doing?"

"Enough..." She says it without hesitation. "Deal?"

I should say no.

I don't know her. Don't know why she's in a wedding dress on Route 9. Don't know if she's running from something bad or toward something worse or just broke down in exactly the wrong spot.

"Sure," I say.

I turn and walk back toward the bike.

I hear her following, the dress makes noise when she moves. Fabric rustling, layers catching on themselves.

I swing my leg over the bike, settle into the seat. The wound pulls. I breathe through it.

She stops next to the bike. Looks at it like she's working out physics she's never had to consider before.

"You been on a bike before?" I ask.

"No."

"Left foot on the peg. Swing your right leg over. Hold on."

She tries. The dress is massive. All that white fabric, layers of tulle, structured underpieces. Getting on a motorcycle was not part of the design specifications. She gets her foot on the peg, tries to swing her leg over, fabric catches.

She stops. Regroups. Gathers the skirt differently. Tries again.