The biker overheard three men bidding on a teenage girl in the gas station bathroom at 3 AM like she was livestock.
I’d pulled off I-70 near Kansas City for gas and coffee. Dead tired from riding twelve hours straight. That’s when I heard them through the men’s room wall. Three voices arguing prices. Then a fourth voice. Young. Female. Terrified. Begging them to let her go.
“Fifteen hundred,” one man said. “She’s damaged goods. Tracks on her arms. Nobody wants a junkie.”
“Two grand,” another countered. “She’s young. Fourteen, maybe fifteen. Still profitable.”
I stood frozen by the sink. My blood turned to ice when I heard her whimper. “Please. My mom’s looking for me. She’ll pay. Just let me call her.”
