The motorcyclist began topping off the young woman’s car while she begged him to stop before her boyfriend returned.
I was refueling my Harley at the station when I caught the sound of her panicked voice. “Please, sir, please don’t. He’ll think I asked you for help. He’ll get furious.”
She looked about nineteen or twenty. Blonde hair tied back in a messy ponytail. Mascara streaking down her cheeks. She stood next to a battered Honda with an empty tank, counting coins in trembling hands. Only about three dollars in quarters and dimes.
I’d already swiped my card at her pump before walking over. “It’s already running, sweetie. Can’t stop it now.”
“You don’t understand,” she whispered, almost shaking. “My boyfriend… he doesn’t like anyone helping me. Says it makes him look weak. He’s inside getting cigarettes, and if he sees you—”
“How much does he usually let you put in?” I asked, watching the numbers tick up.
