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Biker Nearly Struck a Toddler on Interstate at Midnight—She Was Wearing Only a Diaper and a Dog Collar Marked “BITCH”
I nearly killed this child. She was crawling alone on asphalt at midnight wearing merely a diaper and canine collar.
I nearly failed to observe her traversing Interstate 40 at midnight until my headlamp captured reflection from metallic restraint encircling her throat.
I’m seventy years. Motorcycling for forty-five. Navigated precipitation storms, snowstorms, and visibility so restricted I couldn’t perceive ten feet forward.
But I’ve never decelerated more violently than that evening when what appeared as highway fauna revealed itself as human.
Perhaps eighteen months. Clad only in absorbent undergarment. Traversing on palms and knees across westbound lane. Vehicles swerving circumvention. Zero stoppage.
The restraint was leather. Substantial. Variety utilized for pit bulls or rottweilers. Chain attachment dragging posterior. She wept. Hemorrhaging from patellae.
When she observed my illumination, she didn’t attempt escape. She approached me. As if anticipating someone. Anyone.
Upon sufficient proximity for facial observation, I recognized three elements inducing circulatory coldness: cigarette combustion marks covering extremities, the restraint chain recently fractured as if she’d torn liberation from something.
Commercial transport approached. Horn sounding. Operator observed me. Observed the juvenile. Couldn’t halt timely.
I seized that infant and lunged.
The truck missed by centimeters. Wind displacement nearly toppled me. Operator halted quarter-mile forward. Commenced reversing.
That’s when I truly examined my possession.
Female juvenile. Perhaps eighteen months. Maximum two years. Unclothed except soiled absorbent garment. Covered in soil. In hemorrhage. In contusions.
And wearing canine restraint.
Thick leather. Variety employed for combat canines. Heavy chain attached. Approximately one meter length. Terminus fractured. Jagged metal where she’d torn liberation.
“Hey, sweetheart,” I offered, attempting vocal composure. “You’re secure. I’ve obtained you.”
She regarded me with orbs witnessing experiences no juvenile should witness. Then buried her visage in my vest and sobbed.
The transport operator approached. Large male. Perhaps fifty. Complexion pale as precipitation.
“Divine entity. Is that offspring? I nearly… I nearly…”
“You didn’t. She’s secure.”
“From where did she originate?”
Valid inquiry. We were in remote location. No service areas for thirty kilometers either direction. No residences visible from thoroughfare. Merely desert and scrub vegetation.
“Unknown.”
I examined the toddler. She trembled. Weeping. Patellae hemorrhaging from asphalt traversal. Extremities covered in circular combustion marks. Cigarette burns. Dozens. Some recent. Some scarred.
“Contact emergency services,” I instructed the transporter.
During his communication, I attempted examination without additional fright. The restraint was constricted. Excessively constricted. Had abraded her throat raw. When I attempted observation, she whimpered and withdrew.
“Secure, infant. No harm intended.”
But someone had. Someone had injured this juvenile in methods inducing homicidal impulse.
Additional burns on dorsal surface. Belt patterns. Dental impressions. Human dental impressions on shoulders and extremities.
“Emergency services indicates law enforcement twenty minutes,” the transporter reported. “Medical transport forty. Originating from Amarillo.”
Twenty minutes. This infant had been thoroughfare-crawling. Could have been struck any moment.
“Duration of her exposure?”
“Unknown. But observe.”
I indicated her patellae. Hemorrhaging. Raw. She’d traversed considerable distance.
The transporter appeared ill. “I observed something on thoroughfare perhaps three kilometers rearward. Assumed coyote. Swerved circumvention. Divine entity. What if that was her?”
Three kilometers. This infant had crawled three kilometers on highway at night.
“Your designation, sweetheart?” I inquired gently.
She merely observed me.
“Can you communicate your designation?”
Silence. Merely those enlarged, terrified orbs.
I attempted fundamental inquiries. Where’s maternal figure? Where’s paternal figure? Where is residence?
She wouldn’t verbalize. Or couldn’t. Merely clung and wept.
The restraint bore identification. I rotated for legibility.
Not nomenclature. A term: BITCH.
That was her restraint identification. Bitch.
My extremities commenced trembling. Across forty-five motorcycling years, Vietnam, all witnessed horror, nothing prepared me for this.
Someone had treated this juvenile as fauna. Designated her thus. Applied restraint with that term.
Law enforcement arrived in fifteen minutes. Young officer. Perhaps thirty. Observed the infant once and radioed for child protective services and investigators.
“Sir, I must assume custody.”
The juvenile screamed upon his attempt. Seized my vest. Refused release.
“She’s terrified,” I explained. “Permit me to retain her until medical transport arrives.”
The officer appeared uncertain but assented. “Can you describe events?”
I detailed. Motorcycling. Observed crawling. Nearly struck. Fractured chain. Restraint. Combustion marks.
He documented everything. Captured images. Entire duration, the juvenile clung as if I represented sole security in her existence.
“Any origin hypothesis?”
“Negative. We’re kilometers from anything.”
“She originated somewhere. Juveniles don’t materialize on thoroughfares.”
Additional officers arrived. Then another. They initiated searching. Illumination sweeping desert on thoroughfare both sides.
Thirty minutes subsequently, one radioed.
“Located something. Half-kilometer into scrub. Requires observation.”
Lead officer regarded me. “Can you remain?”
“Not departing.”
They departed. Medical transport arrived. Paramedics attempted examination. She screamed and resisted. Only calmed when I retained her.
“Sir, we must assess injuries.”
“Execute while I retain her.”
They did. Their expressions intensified grimness with each discovered injury.
“Cigarette burns. Belt patterns. Dental impressions. Ligature burns on ankles and wrists. Healed fracture evidence. Malnutrition. Severe absorbent garment dermatitis. Infection.”
“Age?”
“Based on dimensions, perhaps eighteen months. But diminutive. Could be two years and malnourished.”
“Verbal capability?”
“Should possess. But no verbal response. Could be developmental delay. Could be trauma. Or both.”
Officers returned. Lead officer appeared as if witnessing inferno.
“Located trailer. Concealed in ravine. No registration. No documentation. Interior…”
He paused. Inhaled.
“Interior contains enclosure. Canine enclosure. Sufficient dimensions for juvenile. Nourishment vessels. Hydration vessels. Both floor-positioned. There’s… chain wall-mounted. Identical variety as her restraint. And juvenile evidence.”
“Additional juveniles?”
“Diminutive garments. Multiple dimensions. Multiple juvenile items. Hypothesis indicates not initial occurrence.”
My vision reddened. “Their location? The perpetrators?”
“Trailer abandoned. Appears urgent departure. Perhaps today. Perhaps previous evening.”
“She escaped.”
“Appears so. Trailer chain fractured. Identical fracture pattern as her restraint. She wall-tore it somehow and fled.”
A toddler. Eighteen months. Fractured chain and fled. Crawled three kilometers across desert in darkness. Reached thoroughfare.
“She sought assistance,” the paramedic stated quietly. “Juveniles are intelligent. She knew vehicles indicated people. People might indicate security.”
The officer knelt near us. Spoke gently to the juvenile.
“Sweetheart, you’re secure now. No injury will occur. Can you communicate your designation?”
She buried her visage in my vest.
“Maternal figure’s designation?”
Silence.
“Paternal figure?”
She commenced trembling. Violent trembling.
“Acceptable, acceptable. No paternal figure. Acceptable.”
Child protective services arrived. Female named Margaret. Perhaps fifty. Observed the infant once and commenced weeping.
“Divine entity. That restraint.”
“We cannot remove,” the paramedic stated. “Locked. Requires bolt cutters at medical facility.”
“I must assume custody,” Margaret addressed me.
“She won’t release.”
“Observable. Sir, any first aid training?”
“Combat medical. Vietnam.”
“Willing to accompany in medical transport? Until she calms sufficiently for proper examination?”
I regarded officers. “Am I free?”
“Complete statement required. But affirmative. Please proceed. That infant requires stability currently.”
Transport duration thirty minutes. Entire duration, the juvenile clung. Wouldn’t permit paramedic contact unless I retained her.
At medical facility, they attempted removal for examination. She screamed until emesis. Resisted. Bit nursing staff.
“Sir,” the physician stated, “unusual, but willing to remain? Retain during examination?”
“Whatever required.”
They examined while I retained. Discoveries induced physician hallway weeping.
Cigarette burns were systematic. Positioned in patterns. Deliberate torture.
Belt patterns were deep. Old scarring indicated months of occurrence. Perhaps her entire existence.
Dental impressions were human. Adult human. Multiple patterns. Multiple abusers.
Wrist and ankle ligature burns. Deep. Frequent binding.
Three healed fractures. Ribs. Arm. Clavicle. Never treated.
“This juvenile was tortured,” the physician stated flatly. “Systematically. Extended duration. This isn’t maltreatment. This is torture.”
“Restraint removal possible?”
They attempted. She panicked. Resisted. Screamed “No no no no no.”
“She’s terrified of throat contact,” the pediatric psychologist stated. “Sedation required.”
“Additional trauma?”
“Everything traumatizes. But restraint cannot remain. Infected. Could induce sepsis.”
They sedated. She resisted. Wept. Regarded me as if betrayed.
“Apologies, infant. Profound apologies. But removal necessary.”
Upon medication effect, they removed restraint. Underlying tissue raw. Infected. Scarred. Months of wear.
Identification—that horrible term—entered evidence.
During sedation, additional testing. Complete radiography. Hematology. Sexual assault examination.
Physician emerged three hours subsequently. Sat heavily.
“She’s been sexually abused. Repeatedly. Minimum months.”
I cradled my cranium.
“Perpetrators… they’re inhuman. This infant was maintained as fauna. Treated inferior to fauna. Nourished from vessels. Chained. Restrained. Abused every possible method.”
“Recovery possible?”
“Physically? Perhaps. With surgical and therapeutic intervention. Psychologically?” Physician shook cranium. “Unknown. So young. Trauma so severe. No verbalization. No nomenclature response—assuming she possesses one. No ocular contact except with you.”
“Why me?”
“You rescued her. You’re secure. You’re sole security in her world currently.”
Law enforcement investigation accelerated rapidly. Trailer was horror exhibition. Evidence of minimum four different juveniles across previous two years. Federal Bureau of Investigation involved. Child trafficking task force.
They located recordings. Distributed digitally. Juveniles being tortured. Abused. For currency.
Our juvenile—they designated “Baby Jane Doe” until identification—appeared in dozens of recordings. From mere months of age.
Federal agent interviewing me appeared broken.
“Trailer registered to shell corporation. Operators departed. Vanished. Tracking financial records. Digital traces. But these individuals are professionals. Organized. International.”
“Juvenile quantity?”
“Four identified from evidence. Baby Jane sole located survivor.”
Sole survivor.
“Others?”
“Searching. But based on pattern… they don’t retain once too aged. Too large. Too problematic.”
He needn’t articulate subsequent events. I understood.
Baby Jane remained hospitalized for two weeks. I visited daily. Nursing staff indicated she wouldn’t nourish unless I was present. Wouldn’t sleep. Merely wept.
“She’s bonded,” Margaret from protective services stated. “Unusual but comprehensible. You rescued her. You’re security.”
“Subsequent events?”
“Foster placement. Seeking specialized assignment. Someone trauma-trained.”
“If no one located?”
“Then best available option.”
That evening, no sleep. Continuously observing that infant thoroughfare-crawling. Canine restraint. Burns. Terror in her orbs.
I contacted Margaret.
“My foster placement requirements?”
Silence. Then: “Mr. Harrison, you’re seventy. Unmarried. Solitary residence.”
“Combat medical. Trauma experience. Patience. And that juvenile trusts me.”
“Not simple.”
“Then simplify. Her requirements? Trauma training? I’ll attend courses. Patience? I possess time. Trust? She already trusts me.”
Extended pause. “Contacting relevant parties.”
Contacts required three days. During those days, Baby Jane deteriorated. Ceased nourishment. Ceased sleep. Constant weeping. Self-harm restraints necessary.
“She requests you,” the nurse stated. “Well, not requests. Cannot verbalize. But continuous gesture. Like this.”
Nurse mimicked motorcycling.
“She remembers. Wants motorcycle individual.”
I arrived immediately. Baby Jane observed me and extended. Commenced weeping. Not fear weeping. Relief weeping.
I retained her. She slept within minutes. First sleep in three days.
“Mr. Harrison,” the physician stated, “unusual recommendations. But that juvenile requires you. Whatever necessary, execute.”
Margaret contacted that evening. “Judge approved emergency placement. Courses required. Weekly residence inspections. Daily protective services contact. But she’s yours. Temporarily. Until resolution determined.”
I transported Baby Jane residence Tuesday. She was terrified of apartment. Of chambers. Of everything.
But she appreciated the motorcycle. I’d escort her to garage. Permit sitting. Touching. She’d relax.
“Motorcycle indicates security,” trauma therapist explained. “You arrived via motorcycle. Motorcycles rescued her.”
Baby Jane wouldn’t sleep in bed. Hysteria upon attempt. Only floor-sleeping. Corner-positioning. As trained.
Therapist advised non-forcing. “Permit security sensation. Security is floor currently.”
So I positioned soft mat in corner. Blankets. Stuffed fauna. She’d curl there.
She wouldn’t nourish from plates. Only floor-vessels.
“They trained her canine-nourishment,” therapist wept. “Must slowly teach her she’s juvenile.”
Three weeks before table-vessel nourishment. Two months before plate attempt.
No verbalization. Physicians hypothesized inability. Perhaps trauma severity. Perhaps vocalization punishment.
But she produced sounds. Small. When frightened. When requiring.
And she shadowed me everywhere. If I departed chambers, she panicked.
“Separation anxiety,” therapist stated. “Terrified you’ll abandon her. Like previous abandonments.”
So I didn’t depart. Leave from mechanic employment. Remained residence. Permitted constant shadowing.
Slowly—exceedingly slowly—trust commenced.
Six months, she’d permit retention without weeping.
Eight months, ocular contact.
Ten months, she smiled. Once. Approximately two seconds. But she smiled.
Federal investigation expanded internationally. Located network. Dozens of individuals. Hundreds of victims across twenty years. Apprehensions in six nations.
But trailer operators—Baby Jane’s torturers—disappeared. Vanished into constructed trafficking network.
“Still searching,” agent promised. “Will locate them.”
But months became year. No leads. No apprehensions.
Baby Jane turned three in my care. Unknown actual birthdate, so selected discovery day. Her “alive day.”
Still no verbalization. But commenced sign usage. Fundamental. More. Assistance. Security.
Security was preferred. Constant signing. Regarding me for confirmation.
“Security,” I’d sign. “Always secure.”
Protective services caseworker visited monthly. Observed Baby Jane. Observed me. Documented.
“Mr. Harrison, honesty required. Court seeks biological family. Return.”
“To whom? Those who sold her? Tortured her?”
“To relatives. Grandparents. Aunts. Uncles. Someone.”
“She’s been with me one year. I’m her family.”
“You’re her foster parent. Temporary.”
“Then permanent. Permit adoption.”
Margaret exhaled. “Complicated. You’re seventy-one. Unmarried. Court prefers younger parents. Couples.”
“Court may prefer whatever desired. That juvenile requires me. And I require her.”
Adoption process required additional year. Residence studies. Interviews. Psychological evaluations. Character references.
My riding club appeared. Fifteen Vietnam veterans in leather testifying my child-rearing capability.
“Preacher’s finest individual known,” Jake informed judge. “Saved my life in ‘Nam. Transported me three kilometers with leg projectile. If he states he’ll protect that infant, he’ll perish before permitting injury.”
Judge appeared skeptical. “Mr. Harrison is seventy-two.”
“And that infant is four,” Margaret stated. “Two years together. Thriving. Happy. Healing. Disrupting attachment would destroy progress.”
Judge reviewed files. Medical reports. Therapy documentation. Images.
Before: terrified, broken, silent juvenile in canine restraint.
After: smiling juvenile. Playing. Learning to be juvenile.
“Mr. Harrison,” judge stated, “if granted, you’ll be eighties at her secondary education completion. Considered?”
“Daily, Your Honor. And daily, I express gratitude for witnessing. Because without me, she wouldn’t reach secondary education. She’d be deceased. Or broken wishing death.”
“Dramatic.”
“Reality. That juvenile was thoroughfare-abandoned. I located her. Rescued her. And daily rescue continuation as long as living.”
Judge remained silent extended duration. Then signed documentation.
“Adoption granted. Mr. Harrison, congratulations. She’s your offspring.”
I wept. First since Vietnam.
We designated her Faith. Because that’s her nature. Faith surviving torture. Faith thoroughfare-crawling. Faith refusing death.
Faith Harrison.
She’s seven now. Second grade. Still minimal verbalization—trauma damaged vocal apparatus—but sign language. And intelligent. Exceedingly intelligent.
She appreciates motorcycles. We ride together. Her in specialized sidecar. Both matching helmets.
Individuals stare occasionally. Elderly biker and juvenile with extremity scarring. I stare until they avert.
Faith still experiences nightmares. Still floor-sleeps occasionally. Still panics if I depart chambers.
But she laughs now. Plays with toys. Possesses friends. Lives as juvenile should.
Federal Bureau never located her torturers. Still existing. Still injuring juveniles.
But they lack Faith.
She’s secure. Loved. Home.
Previous week, Faith had classroom demonstration. She transported an image. Me and her on motorcycle. Her initial ride.
“This is my father,” she signed to class. Teacher translated. “He rescued me. Located me on thoroughfare when I was lost. Transported me home. Maintains my security. I love him.”
Teacher contacted me weeping. “Mr. Harrison, most Faith has ever communicated. She’s so proud.”
“I’m proud of her. She’s bravest individual known.”
Because she is. Faith survived torture. Escaped. Crawled three kilometers across desert. Reached thoroughfare. Awaited assistance.
And continued living when living was most difficult.
Individuals inquire occasionally, “Why adoption? You’re seventy-four now. She’s seven. You’ll be eighty-five at her graduation.”
I communicate truth.
“Because she requested. Not verbally. Via trust. She observed frightening elderly biker and determined I was secure. Who am I to prove her incorrect?”
Faith sleeps now. Floor of my chamber. Her corner with stuffed fauna.
She’s retaining Biker Bear. Stuffed bear wearing leather vest. Her preferred.
Tomorrow, we’ll ride. Merely around block. Her waving at all passersby.
Next month, Sturgis. Her initial rally. Club transporting her. Fifteen uncles who’d perish before permitting injury.
Because that’s our function.
Protect innocents.
Rescue broken.
Provide faith to juveniles designated Faith.
And never, ever thoroughfare-pass crawling infants at midnight.
Even if requiring violent deceleration.
Even if requiring complete life alteration.
Even if requiring seventy-four-year-old biker raising seven-year-old with severe trauma.
Because some matters exceed convenience value.
Some matters exceed planning value.
Some matters—some individuals—exceed everything value.
Faith Harrison exceeds everything value.
And I’ll expend every remaining day proving it to her.
