**Diary Entry**
Ill never forget the night little Emily tugged at my sleeve. Barefoot, clutching a plastic bag full of pound coins, she stood in her worn-out *Peppa Pig* pyjamas under the harsh lights of the 24-hour petrol station. She couldnt have been older than six, tears streaking through the dirt on her cheeks as she begged me to buy milk for her baby brother.
Id just pulled in after a 400-mile ride, aching and desperate to get home. But there she was, trembling, choosing *me*a burly biker with scars and a reputationover the smartly dressed couple filling up two pumps over.
*”Please, mister,”* she whispered, glancing nervously at a beat-up van parked in the shadows. *”Charlie hasnt eaten since yesterday. They wont sell to kids, but you you look like youd understand.”*
I followed her gaze to the van, then to her bare feet on the cold concrete, and finally to the shop where the cashier watched us warily. Something was very wrong.
*”Where are your parents?”* I asked, crouching down despite my protesting knee.
She bit her lip. *”Sleeping. Theyve been tired. Three days. I tried to wake them.”*
*Three days.* My blood ran cold. I knew what that meant. Id left that world behind fifteen years ago.
*”Whats your name, love?”*
*”Emily. Please, just the milk. Charlie wont stop crying, and I dont know what else to do.”*
I stood slowly, jaw clenched. *”Emily, Ill get the milk. But wait here by my bike, all right?”*
She nodded desperately, shoving the bag of coins at me. I didnt take it.
*”Keep your money. Ive got this.”*
Inside, I grabbed milk, bottles, water, and every ready-made meal I could carry. The cashiera lad barely out of schoolshifted uncomfortably.
*”Has that girl been in before?”* I asked quietly.
*”Last three nights,”* he admitted. *”Different people asking for milk. Yesterday, she tried buying it. But policy says”*
*”You refused a child milk?”* My voice was low, dangerous.
*”I rang social services! They said without an address”*
I slammed the cash on the counter and walked out. Emily was still by my bike, swaying with exhaustion.
*”When did you last eat?”*
*”Tuesday? Maybe Monday. Charlie got the last biscuits.”*
It was Thursday night. Or Friday morning, technically.
I handed her the supplies. *”Wheres Charlie now?”*
She hesitated, eyes darting to the van. *”Mum said not to talk to strangers.”*
*”Emily, Im Bear. Iron Guardians MC. We help kids. Its what we do.”* I showed her the patch on my jacket: *”Protect the Innocent.”*
She burst into tears, tiny body shaking. *”They wont wake up. I tried, but Charlies hungry, and I dont know”*
Worst fears confirmed. I called our president, Tank.
*”Brother, need you and Doc at the BP off the M1. Now. Bring the van.”*
*”Whats?”*
*”Kids in danger. Possible OD. Move.”*
Then I dialled 999, reported a medical emergency, and turned back to Emily.
*”Take me to Charlie. My friends are comingones a doctor. Well help.”*
The van reeked of rot and despair. In the back, a six-month-old baby whimpered weakly on filthy blankets. Too weak. And in the front seats
Two adults, barely breathing. Needles on the dashboard. The mans lips were blue.
Emilys voice cracked. *”Theyre not my parents. My aunt and her boyfriend. Mum died last year. Cancer. But they started taking that medicine that makes them sleep”*
Sirens wailed in the distance. Tanks bike roared into the forecourt. Doc followed in our van.
Docex-Army medicchecked Charlie instantly. Tank took one look and understood.
*”How long?”*
*”Kid says three days.”*
*”Christ.”*
Paramedics arrived, administered naloxone, and chaos erupted. Police. Social workers. Emily clung to me.
*”Youre taking Charlie,”* she sobbed. *”I tried. Im sorry, Im so sorry.”*
I crouched to her level. *”Emily, you saved his life. Youre *nine*. No ones angry with you.”*
A social worker approached. *”We need to place the children”*
*”Together,”* I said firmly.
*”Thats not always”*
Tank stepped forward, patches marking decades of service. *”Maam, that girls the only mother that babys known. Separate them, and youll break them.”*
More bikes rolled in. Within an hour, thirty Iron Guardians surrounded the place.
The social worker wavered. *”Its complicated”*
*”No,”* I said. *”Its simple. They need a home. Together. Weve got foster families. The Wilsonshes ex-forces, shes a nurse. Theyll take them.”*
Doc nodded. *”Babys dehydrated, malnourished, but stable.”*
The aunt and boyfriend, now cuffed, screamed from the ambulances.
*”EMILY! DONT LET THEM TAKE YOU! IM SORRY!”*
Emily buried her face in my jacket. *”Will I see them again?”*
I glanced at the Wilsons, who nodded.
*”Every week, if you want. Youre family now.”*
*”Why?”* she whispered. *”Why help us?”*
I thought of my past. *”Because once, someone helped me when I didnt deserve it. Real bikers protect those who cant. And you, Emily, are the bravest girl Ive ever met.”*
She finally let the Wilsons lead her away but turned back once.
*”Bear Mum said angels dont always have wings. Sometimes they ride bikes.”*
I had to walk away, eyes burning.
A week later, I visited. Emily ran to me, clean and grinning. Charlie, chubby-cheeked, gurgled in Mrs. Wilsons arms.
*”He smiled yesterday,”* she said proudly.
For months, the club rallied around them. Bikes outside their house every Sunday. Emily memorising road names; Charlie cuddled by the toughest men I knew.
The aunt got three years.
A year later, at our annual charity ride, Emily stood before 500 bikers. Ten years old, safe, strong.
*”People say bikers are scary,”* she said, holding Charlie close. *”But scary is being nine and not knowing how to save your brother. Scary is”*
As she spoke, applause thunderous around her, I knew that stop at the petrol station had been fate. Sometimes, the biggest heroics start with a barefoot girl and a handful of coins.
