Iron Jack staggered. His blood type—how could she know? With shaking hands, he let the medics connect him for transfusion right there on the roadside.

Jonas’s eyes fluttered open for just a moment. He saw Sophie above him and rasped, “Isla?”

“She’s right here,” Sophie whispered. “She just borrowed me for a while.”

The bikers formed a chain, helping lift Jonas to the ambulance. When at last Sophie let go, her small body trembled, but she stood straight. Surrounded by hardened men, she looked like something holy.

Weeks later, doctors confirmed what everyone suspected: Jonas had survived only because immediate, expert pressure had been applied to his artery. Without that, he would have died before help arrived. No one could explain how a child knew such things—nor how she knew names, blood types, and lullabies no stranger could possibly know.

Sophie only shrugged. “Isla showed me.”

From that day forward, the Black Hounds Motorcycle Club claimed Sophie as their own. They attended her kindergarten recital in full leather, towering over folding chairs as they clapped louder than anyone. They created a scholarship fund in Isla’s name, dedicated to Sophie’s future. They let her sit on their bikes in parades, promising she could ride for real when she was old enough.