The quiet of a long night ride was broken at a nearly empty Chevron station when I noticed a small figure near the pumps. A barefoot six-year-old stood there in a worn Frozen nightgown, holding a ziplock bag filled with quarters. To most people I probably looked like someone to avoid—a big biker in the middle of the night—but she walked straight toward me. Her name was Emily, and she asked if I could help her buy baby formula because her little brother Jamie hadn’t eaten. When she explained that the adults in the van with them had been “sleeping” for three days, the meaning behind those words was painfully familiar. What looked like an ordinary stop along the highway suddenly felt like the edge of something far more serious.
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