Word of “the miracle child on Route 27” spread across biker circles and beyond. Some scoffed, calling it coincidence, childish fantasy, wishful thinking. But those who had been there—who had seen Sophie kneel in sequins and blood, holding back death with her tiny hands—knew better.

Sometimes angels do not arrive with wings. Sometimes they wear sparkly dresses and sneakers that flash. Sometimes they carry the voices of the lost.

And sometimes, when engines rumble beneath the sunset, Jonas swears he feels the small arms of his daughter wrap around his waist once more.

Sophie, now a little older, only smiles knowingly when he tells her.

“She’s riding with you today, isn’t she?”

And he nods, his heart lighter.

She always is.