The biker in me has always said: the road shows you what you need to see. That night on Route 47, it showed me something I’ll never forget.
Midnight. A deserted two-lane highway cutting through the state forest. I’d been riding for six hours straight, exhaustion creeping in, but I knew these roads like the back of my hand. Then, out of nowhere, a deer appeared in my headlight beam. I braked hard and swerved—but couldn’t avoid it completely.
The impact was minor. My bike had a dented fender and a cracked headlight. The deer lay motionless in the road.
Then I noticed movement at the edge of the woods. Not an animal. Human.
I killed my engine. The forest fell silent except for rapid, panicked breathing. Small breathing. A child.
I switched on my phone light and walked toward the sound. That’s when I saw him—a boy, no older than six, knees tucked to his chest, feet bare and filthy, dressed only in thin pajamas in forty-degree October weather.
But it was his eyes that froze me. I’d seen that look before—in Iraq. The thousand-yard stare. A silent scream of trauma. This little boy had it.
I spoke softly, told him my name, told him I wouldn’t hurt him. I offered my jacket. He didn’t move. But when I turned to get my phone, he grabbed my hand with both of his, shaking, refusing to let go. His message was clear: Don’t leave me.
I called 911 while keeping his grip in mine. “I found a boy, maybe six years old. In the woods off Route 47, mile marker 33. He’s not talking. He’s alone.”
Continue reading on next page…