The Patch on His Vest

The biker squeezed Avery’s hand weakly. The sirens were getting closer. But not close enough. Not yet. Then— Avery noticed

The Photograph in Her Purse

The elderly woman smiled through her tears. Janie squeezed her hand gently. The soup sat untouched between them. Warm. Waiting.

The Drawing in Her Backpack

The biker stood beside Avery. Ready to leave. Ready to help. Then— Avery grabbed his sleeve. “Wait.” Her voice was