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One of the hardest parts about my new life was walking Diesel.

I coaxed my good boy out of the car, holding his leash loosely as we made our way along the tree line behind the warehouse. Even though we were in a less-populated part of town, I felt exposed.

My focus narrowed to Diesel's movements—slower than usual, lacking his typical alertness. He trudged beside me, head slightly lowered, stopping to sniff halfheartedly at a clump of weeds. Something was wrong. My chest tightened with a new kind of fear, one that had nothing to do with Jesse or the Iron Serpents and everything to do with the only living being I truly trusted.

"Come on, buddy," I murmured, giving the leash a gentle tug. "Just a quick walk and then we can rest."

We kept to the shadows, staying close to the trees where we'd be less visible from the road. Old habits. Survival habits. I scanned our surroundings constantly, my eyes darting to any movement, my body tensing at every distant engine sound. I couldn't shake the feeling of exposure, of being watched. Paranoia had become my constant companion.

Diesel stopped suddenly, his legs splaying awkwardly as if he couldn't quite keep his balance. My heart lurched.

"Diesel? What's wrong, boy?"

He looked up at me with dull eyes. When he tried to continue walking, his movements were stiff, almost reluctant.

I knelt beside him, running my hands over his body, searching for injuries or tender spots. Nothing obvious, but his coat felt rougher than usual, lacking its healthy sheen. When I touched his nose, it was dry and warm—not the cool, wet nose of a healthy dog.

"Oh, D," I whispered, my voice slipping into a higher, softer register—the voice I used only when we were completely alone. The voice Jesse had mocked relentlessly whenever he caught me using it. "Are you feeling sick, sweet boy? Is my good boy not feeling well?"

It was the voice of the part of me I kept buried deep inside—the vulnerable, younger self that craved comfort and safety. The part Jesse had systematically stripped away, berated, and shamed until I'd learned to hide it completely.

"Little baby Mia," he'd sneered once, catching me talking to Diesel this way. "Jesus, it's pathetic."

I'd been careful to only let that side of myself emerge when I was absolutely certain I was alone with Diesel. It was my secret, my hidden comfort, the one part of myself I'd managed to preserve despite everything.

Diesel licked my hand, bringing me back to the present. We'd been in one spot too long. The survival part of my brain kicked back in, overriding the momentary lapse into vulnerability.

"Come on, boy. Let's get back to the car."

I cut our walk short. Diesel seemed relieved to return to the familiar haven of the Honda, curling up in the backseat with a soft whimper that cut straight to my heart. I gave him a little more water, which he lapped at listlessly, then settled in to complete my own routine.

I grabbed my small toiletry bag and made my way to the side of the warehouse where I'd discovered a large rain barrel the previous evening. The water wasn't clean enough to drink, but it would do for basic hygiene. I glanced around nervously, confirming I was alone before quickly stripping off my shirt, leaving me in just my bra. The cold air raised goosebumps on my skin as I dampened a washcloth and hurriedly washed my face, neck, and underarms.

Even these simple acts of self-care had become complicated exercises in vulnerability and vigilance. I kept my back to the wall, eyes constantly scanning for any sign of approach, ready to grab my shirt and run at the slightest sound. I brushed my teeth with a tiny amount of toothpaste, rinsing with a sip from my precious bottled water.

I changed into a clean t-shirt—one of the three I owned—and carefully folded the dirty one, placing it in a plastic bag designated for laundry.

Back in the relative safety of the car, I brushed my hair, counting under my breath as I pulled the brush through the tangled strands.

"One . . . two . . . three . . ."

Fifty strokes exactly. No more, no less. I'd done this since childhood, finding comfort in the predictability, the structure. In foster homes where nothing felt permanent or safe, this small ritual had been entirely mine.

"Forty-eight . . . forty-nine . . . fifty."

Through it all, I kept checking on Diesel, growing more concerned as the morning progressed. He hadn't moved from his curled position in the back seat. His breathing seemed slightly labored, and he'd refused the few kibbles I'd offered from our dwindling supply.

"What's wrong, D?" I whispered, stroking his head. "Talk to me, buddy."

As if in response, he whimpered softly, his eyes meeting mine with an expression that seemed almost apologetic. My throat tightened. In all our years together, through all the chaos and fear, Diesel had been my constant—my protector, my comfort, my family. The thought of him suffering, of something being seriously wrong, sent a spike of panic through me that dwarfed even my fear of Jesse finding us.

By mid-morning, I couldn't deny the obvious anymore. Diesel wasn't just tired or temporarily under the weather. He was genuinely ill. When he finally got up to stretch, his movements were stiff and uncoordinated. He immediately lay back down, curling into himself as if trying to escape some internal discomfort.

"Oh no, baby, what's wrong?" I asked, my voice cracking with worry. The childlike tone returned, slipping out unintentionally as fear overwhelmed my carefully constructed defenses. "Please drink a little bit, please? For me?"

He looked at me with those loyal eyes, trying to please even when he clearly felt terrible. He took a small lap of water, then laid his head back down with a heavy sigh.

My mind raced through possibilities. Had he eaten something bad during one of our stops? Was he just exhausted from weeks on the run, sleeping in a cramped car? Or was it something worse, something that required actual veterinary care?

The last thought sent a chill through me. Veterinarians meant people, questions, records, payments—all the things I'd been avoiding for three weeks. Going to a vet would mean entering a town properly, risking exposure, using more of our dwindling cash. It would mean potential danger.

But as I watched Diesel's sides rising and falling with slightly labored breathing, I knew I might not have a choice. He wasn't just my pet—he was my protector, my emotional support, the only family I had left in the world. The only living being who had stood by me, who had never hurt me.

I would do anything for him.

I stroked his fur gently, and he pressed his head into my palm, seeking comfort even in his discomfort. The gesture broke something inside me. Tears welled up unexpectedly, spilling over before I could stop them.

"I'll take care of you," I promised him, wiping the tears away with the back of my hand. "Just like you've always taken care of me."

I looked down at Diesel, at his trusting eyes and labored breathing. He needed help, and I was the only one who could get it for him.

Even if it meant risking everything.

***

By mid-afternoon, Diesel's condition had deteriorated from concerning to alarming. He lay in the backseat, barely moving except for the shallow rise and fall of his chest. When I tried to coax him to stand, he managed only to lift his head before dropping it back down with a soft whimper that broke my heart.

"Diesel, please," I whispered, stroking his fur with trembling fingers. "Please drink something."

He looked at me with such trust, such unconditional love, even through his obvious suffering. I felt a crushing weight of responsibility. This loyal creature depended on me entirely, and I was failing him.

I sat in the driver's seat, gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turned white. The plastic felt cool against my palms, grounding me as my thoughts raced in increasingly desperate circles. Diesel's labored breathing filled the car, each strained inhale like an accusation.

We had nothing—no medicine, no veterinary supplies, not even a basic first aid kit that might help him. Caring for a sick dog hadn't been part of the planning.

I unfolded the map of Ironridge I'd stolen from a gas station outside town three days ago. The paper crinkled as I spread it across the dashboard, studying the streets and landmarks with desperate intensity. I'd chosen this town randomly, based on nothing more than its distance from Coldwater and its size—small enough to blend in, but not so tiny that a newcomer would stand out immediately.

Now I examined it with new purpose, looking for veterinary clinics, pet stores, anything that might help Diesel. My finger traced possible routes into town, calculating risks, mapping escape options if things went wrong. Always planning escape routes—a habit born from years with Jesse.

The prospect of entering Ironridge properly filled me with cold dread. For three weeks, I'd survived by keeping to the fringes of civilization—gas stations off the highway, truck stops, abandoned parking lots. I'd avoided populated areas, busy streets, anywhere people might take note of the hollow-eyed woman living in her car with a German Shepherd.

Going into town meant exposure. It meant people who might remember my face, my car. It meant security cameras in stores, potential interactions with locals who might later describe me to someone asking questions. To someone wearing an Iron Serpents patch.

My stomach twisted with anxiety. Jesse would surely still be looking for me. The Iron Serpents had connections everywhere—other clubs, law enforcement, businesses. If they'd put the word out about me, even a small town like Ironridge might not be safe.

But what choice did I have? I looked back at Diesel, my throat tightening.

He had saved me. Not just on the night we fled, but every day before that—saved my sanity, my sense of self-worth, my capacity to feel loved when Jesse did his best to destroy them.

Now he needed me to save him.

I could try the outskirts first, looking for a small veterinary practice or pet supply store that might be less crowded.

Forty-three dollars and seventeen cents. The sum burned in my mind. Would it be enough for medicine? For a veterinary visit if it came to that? What would I do if it wasn't?

My thoughts spiraled into increasingly dark territory. What if Diesel needed serious medical attention? What if I couldn't afford it? What if someone recognized me while I was seeking help for him? What if the Iron Serpents had already spread the word to nearby towns, offering rewards for information about me?

And the most terrifying thought of all: what if I lost him? What if Diesel, my protector, my friend, my family, died because I was too afraid to get him the help he needed?

That possibility sent a shock of cold determination through me, momentarily overpowering the fear. I couldn't let that happen. I wouldn't.

I folded the map carefully, my decision made. I would wait until early evening, when most businesses would still be open but the day crowd would be thinning out. I would clean myself up as best I could, try to look like an ordinary person rather than a homeless fugitive. I would take only what cash I needed, leaving the rest hidden in the car in case I had to run.

And I would pray that whatever was wrong with Diesel could be fixed quickly, cheaply, without drawing attention.

He whimpered softly from the backseat, as if sensing my thoughts.

"Oh, Diesel," I whispered, reaching back to stroke his head. "What would I do without you?"

The prospect of losing him was unbearable. Unthinkable.

I started the car, the engine's rough idle matching my jangled nerves. The gas gauge hovered just above empty—another problem for another time. I had enough to get into Ironridge and back to our hiding spot. That would have to be sufficient.

I pulled away from the warehouse, heading toward town, toward people, toward risk. My hands gripped the steering wheel too tightly, my shoulders hunched with tension, but my course was set.

For Diesel, I would walk into danger. For Diesel, I would be brave.

***

Early evening painted Ironridge in deceptively gentle colors. Every few seconds, my eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, checking on him, then scanning for vehicles that might be following us.

The streets became more defined as I entered the town proper, old brick buildings and weathered storefronts replacing the open fields and scattered houses of the outskirts. My fingers tightened around the steering wheel, knuckles whitening with each turn deeper into unknown territory.

I hadn't realized I was driving into the industrial section of town. I didn’t know much about Ironridge, but I knew that it was Heavy Kings Territory. They were the Serpents’ arch rivals, and I knew they were bad guys. I hoped that this town was far enough from Coldwater that the Iron Serpents might not think to look here first.

The evening streets weren't crowded, but there were enough people to make my skin crawl with anxiety. Each face I passed was a potential threat, each pair of eyes a possible witness who might later describe me to someone asking questions.

I drove slowly, scanning storefront signs for anything related to veterinary services or pet supplies. The buildings here had an industrial feel—brick facades, metal fixtures, a working-class solidity that reminded me uncomfortably of Coldwater. I passed an auto shop with motorcycles lined up outside, their chrome gleaming in the fading light. Iron Kings Auto, the sign read. I registered the bikes and felt that familiar spike of terror, the automatic association of motorcycles with danger that Jesse had burned into my psyche.

I spotted a small convenience store up ahead with a relatively empty parking lot—perfect for my purposes. I could ask about veterinarians or pet supplies without drawing too much attention. I pulled in, parking as far from the entrance as possible while still appearing casual. Force of habit—always leave yourself an exit route.

Before getting out, I turned to check on Diesel one last time. His eyes were half-closed, but he managed to lift his head slightly at my movement, letting out a soft whine.

"I'll be quick," I promised him, keeping my voice low. "You just rest, okay? I'm going to find something to help you."

I grabbed my small wallet containing my dwindling cash and tucked it into my pocket. I left my backpack hidden under the seat, containing the photograph of my parents and the few other precious items I'd managed to salvage during my escape. If something went wrong, if I had to run, at least Diesel would still be in the car with my things. At least I wouldn't lose everything.

Stepping out of the Honda felt like stepping onto a stage. Under the parking lot lights, I felt horribly visible, exposed in a way I hadn't been since fleeing Coldwater. My breath shortened, coming in quick, shallow pulls that didn't quite fill my lungs.

I tugged my hoodie lower over my face, hunching my shoulders instinctively to make myself smaller, less noticeable. I kept my eyes down as I walked toward the store entrance, focusing on the cracked asphalt beneath my worn sneakers. One foot in front of the other. Just breathe. Act normal.

With each step deeper into Ironridge, I ventured further into unknown territory, unaware that I was walking a dangerous line between rival MCs.

Unaware that my life was about to change forever.