Cleo

T he spine of Goodnight Moon cracked as I opened it, releasing that particular smell of loved-to-death board books—crayon wax and apple juice and something sticky that spoke of countless bedtimes.

I set it in the "good condition" pile on the volunteer desk, trying not to think about how many times my mother had read those exact words to me.

In the great green room, there was a telephone. And a red balloon. And a picture of—

The rumble cut through everything. Deep, guttural, the kind of engine sound that vibrated through pavement and into bones. My hands froze on the next book—some Disney princess thing with half its pages missing. Through the shelter's grimy windows, chrome caught the afternoon light like a threat.

The bike was one of those oversized Harleys.

All that gleaming metal and custom paint, probably worth more than the shelter's annual budget.

The man dismounting moved with that particular swagger I recognized in my nightmares—shoulders back, chin up, like the world owed him passage.

His leather jacket bore patches I couldn't read from here, but I didn't need to see the details.

The uniform was universal. The attitude unmistakable.

My chest tightened the way it always did, like someone had wrapped piano wire around my ribs and started turning the pegs.

Seven years old again, nose pressed to the living room window, watching taillights disappear into the darkness.

My mother's voice behind me, trying so hard to sound normal: "Daddy just needs some time to think, baby.

He'll be back." Even then, I'd known she was lying.

Even then, I'd understood that the motorcycle mattered more than we did.

"Please, Rhett. Please." Her words echoed across fifteen years, desperate and thin. "I'll find the money. I'll sell the van. I'll—"

"It’s not enough, Diane." My father's voice, impatient. Disgusted. "Your medical bills are to blame."

I'd been hiding behind the kitchen door, Mr. Friendly clutched against my chest. Through the crack, I could see my father's boots—heavy black things with chains across the instep. He'd been pacing, the chains making little metallic whispers against the linoleum.

"We can figure something out," my mother had begged. "Cleo needs—"

"Cleo needs a mother who isn't a fucking burden." The boots had stopped pacing. "I'm done, Diane. Done playing house, done pretending this is what I want. The club needs me in Chicago."

The club. Always the club. I'd learned young that leather and chrome trumped love every time.

The shelter door would open any second now. I could see the biker approaching, his gait unhurried but purposeful. Big man—bigger than my father had been, broader through the shoulders. Dark hair where my father's had been sun-bleached. Different club patches. Same predator walk.

My thumb found its way to my mouth before I caught myself.

Twenty-two years old and still sucking my thumb like a baby when the fear hit.

I yanked my hand down, wiping the moisture on my jeans.

Forced my breathing to steady. In through the nose, out through the mouth, just like the YouTube videos said.

The thing about bikers was they took what they wanted.

Always had, always would. My father had taken my mother's health, her hope, her life savings.

Taken our stability and safety and left us with nothing but debt and broken promises.

The night he'd finally roared away for good, he'd taken the grocery money from my mother's purse.

Forty-three dollars that was supposed to last us the week.

I'd watched from my bedroom window as his taillight faded into nothing, the sound of his engine echoing long after he'd disappeared.

The door squealed open—we kept meaning to oil those hinges but never seemed to have the WD-40 budget—and boots hit the industrial mat with deliberate weight.

I kept my eyes on the princess book, counting water stains on its cover.

One, two, three. If I didn't look up, maybe he'd go away. Maybe he'd find someone else to bother.

But the footsteps kept coming, steady and sure, until they stopped right at my desk.

I could smell him now—leather and motor oil and something sharp like wintergreen.

The princess book trembled in my hands, and I hated myself for it.

Hated that fifteen years later, the sound of motorcycle boots could still turn me into that seven-year-old girl watching her world drive away.

The cardboard box hit my desk with a thud that made me flinch. Plain brown cardboard, the kind you'd get from any liquor store, edges reinforced with too much packing tape. The biker's hands were scarred across the knuckles—fighting hands, violent hands.

"Donation for the kids," he said, and his voice came out gravelly but careful, like he was trying to sound harmless. Trying too hard.

I forced my eyes up to his face. Late thirties, maybe.

Dark hair cut tousled and loose. Brown eyes that moved constantly, cataloging exits and threats and weak points.

The kind of eyes that had seen violence and decided they liked it.

A scar through his left eyebrow that probably had a story involving brass knuckles or a broken bottle.

Everything about him screamed danger, from the way he held his shoulders to the precise distance he kept between us—close enough to intimidate, far enough to deny it.

"Thank you." The words tasted like ash. "That's very generous."

Generous.

Right.

Because drug dealers and gun runners were known for their philanthropy.

More likely this was guilt money, some attempt to buy absolution for whatever he'd done to earn it.

Or worse—a marking of territory. Bikers did that, claimed spaces and people like dogs pissing on fire hydrants.

My father had "donated" to my elementary school once.

Turned out he'd been using the assistant principal to launder money.

The box sat between us. No markings, no indication of what lurked inside. Could be anything. Stolen merchandise they couldn't move. Bloody clothes from whatever violence they'd committed last night. Drug money that needed cleaning. My mind spun through possibilities, each worse than the last.

"Don't open it while I'm here, please," he said, and every alarm in my head started shrieking.

My fingers tightened on the desk edge. "Of course not. We have procedures for processing donations."

It would be opened in the back, by someone else.

Elena had been here long enough to know the drill—anonymous donations got the full inspection before they went anywhere near the kids.

We'd had a close call two years ago with a box of "toys" that turned out to be drug paraphernalia someone was trying to hide from the cops.

The biker shifted his weight, leather creaking. "It's nothing bad. Just . . . personal."

"I'll make sure it gets processed properly," I said, pulling the box across the desk. It was heavier than expected. Dense. My imagination immediately supplied horrible possibilities: weapons, drugs, money soaked in blood. "We appreciate all donations to the shelter."

He wasn't moving. Just standing there, watching me with those cataloging eyes. I recognized the tactic—my father had done it too, the looming. Making his presence known, making sure you understood the implied threat. "Good cause," he said finally. "The shelter. Important work."

I’d seen him before, even spoken to him before. He seemed so awkward though. I didn’t get it.

"Yes." One word. Don't engage. Don't encourage. "Thank you again for the donation."

A dismissal, clear as I could make it without being openly hostile. But bikers didn't take dismissal well.

He stood there another moment, and I could feel him wanting to say something else. My shoulders tensed, ready for whatever threat or proposition was coming.

But it didn’t come.

"Have a good day," he said instead, and turned for the door.

I watched him go, counted his steps. Fifteen to the door. Through the window, I tracked him back to his bike, watched him swing one leg over like he'd done it a thousand times.

O bviously, just before I was due to leave, the weather went to shit.

Thunder rolled across Ironridge, low and threatening. The overhead fluorescents flickered once, making shadows jump across the racks of dead people's clothes.

I was in the back, sorting clothes donations.

Another towel. Snap. Fold. Stack. My movements were sharp enough to cut, angry enough to hurt.

But the anger felt better than the fear, better than the way my hands had shaken when that biker stood at my desk.

At least anger moved forward. Fear just froze you in place, seven years old forever, watching taillights disappear.

I grabbed a pile of children's clothes, sorting with mechanical efficiency.

Size 2T in this bin, 3T in that one. My hands stilled on a tiny denim jacket with rhinestone butterflies on the pockets.

The kind of thing a biker's daughter might wear, if her father stuck around long enough to buy it for her.

All of a sudden, a memory I’d suppressed, hit like a physical blow: me at seven, crouched in my bedroom closet with Mr. Friendly pressed against my face. The closet door cracked just enough to hear everything.

"Fifty thousand." My mother's voice, high and desperate. "They want fifty thousand or they'll—"

"I know what they'll do." My father, impatient. Already done with this conversation before it started. "Not my problem anymore."

"Not your—Rhett, please. These are your debts. Your people."

"Were. Were my people. I'm patching over to Chicago. Fresh start."

"What about us? What about Cleo?"