On a late October day, traffic on Route 27 in Ashford appeared typical until a five-year-old girl in a sparkling fairy-tale costume shouted for her mom to stop the car.
Sophie Maren had wild blonde hair, sneakers that lit up, and a willpower that seemed too big for her petite body. She was weeping and thrashing against her seatbelt from the backseat, saying that “the motorcycle man” was dying down below the ridge.
Helen’s mother thought her daughter was just tired from kindergarten at first. There was no wreckage, no smoke, and no reason to believe anyone was hurt. Sophie, on the other hand, tried to loosen the buckle while crying because “the man with the leather jacket and beard” was wounded. Helen didn’t want to, but she stopped on the side of the road to calm her down.
Sophie sprang out of the car before it had completely stopped, and her dress hem fluttered behind her as she rushed for the grassy drop. Helen chased after her and stopped.
There was a man the size of a bear lying on the ground next to a black Harley that had been bent. It was forty feet down. He had a fading patch on his vest, blood on his chest, and his breaths were weak and wobbly.
The little kid didn’t think twice. She knelt down on the hill, tore off her cardigan, and pressed both of her little hands against the biggest cut.
“Wait,” she murmured to him in a hushed voice, like if she had known him all her life. “I’m not going anywhere.” They told you to take twenty minutes.
Helen’s hands shook as she asked for aid. She kept looking at her daughter, who spoke with calm authority, moved the man’s head to open his airway, and put pressure on his chest wound with amazing accuracy.
“How did you find out?” Helen gasped.
Sophie didn’t look up. “From Isla,” she replied in a quiet voice. “She came to me in a dream last night. She said that her dad would crash and I would have to help.
Jonas “Grizzly” Keller got hurt. He was riding his bike home from a memorial run when a pickup truck hit him and knocked him off the road. He had already lost too much blood. Sophie kept singing the same lullaby over and over again, and her princess dress was black with crimson.
When the paramedics got there, there were only a few individuals there. A medic crouched down and tried to encourage Sophie to move.
“Sweetheart, let us take care of it.”
“No,” Sophie replied forcefully, her hands still pushing hard. “Not until his brothers get here.” Isla promised.
The EMTs gave each other anxious looks. Maybe shock, trauma, or hallucinations. But then, as they pulled Jonas up on the stretcher, the sound of engines rumbling filled the air.
Dozens more motorcyclists were coming over the hill, and the valley reverberated with thunder. They all slammed on the brakes at the same time, and men sprinted toward the scene with their boots hammering. The first cyclist, a huge guy with “IRON JACK” stitched on his vest, saw Sophie and stopped right there. His face, which had been browned, went pale.
“Isla?” He uttered it in a rough voice. “God above, you should be gone.”
The other motorcycles came to a stop. Isla Keller, Jonas’s only daughter, died of leukemia when she was just three years old. She was the club’s heart, the girl who sat on chrome tanks during parades, and the little sister of every man who wore the patch.
Sophie looked up at Iron Jack, perplexed yet calm. “Hi, I’m Sophie. Isla, on the other hand, tells you to hurry. You have O-negative blood, which he needs.
The big guy almost toppled down. Even though his hands were shaking, he let the paramedics hook him up for a transfusion right away. Jonas’s eyes opened for a little while. He couldn’t stop looking at Sophie.
He said, “Isla?” in a harsh voice.
Sophie remarked in a hushed voice, “She’s right here.” “She just borrowed me for a while.”
To help Jonas get up the slope, the bikers built a chain. Sophie finally let go when the doors of the ambulance closed. She was small and shivering, wearing sequins that were stained with blood. Tough guys suddenly regarded her like a goddess.
Over the next three weeks, doctors determined that Jonas only lived because the artery was put under pressure straight away. They couldn’t figure out how the kid knew exactly what to do or how she knew names, blood types, and songs that no one else could.
Sophie merely shrugged. “Isla showed me.”
The Black Hounds Motorcycle Club took Sophie in after that. They wore full leather to her school recital, which made the folding seats look small. They set up a scholarship fund for Sophie in Isla’s name. They let her sit on bikes in parades and promised her that when she was older, she could ride them for real.
But the scariest thing came six months later. Sophie was chasing the dog in Jonas’s backyard when she suddenly stopped close to an old chestnut tree.
“She wants you to dig here,” she told him.
There was a message written by a child in a rusty tin box. There was no question that it was Isla’s writing.
“Angel, Daddy, said I won’t grow up, but one day a girl with golden hair will come. She’ll sing my song and help you when you’re in pain. You should trust her. “Don’t be sad; I’ll always be there for you.”
Jonas got down on his knees and cried into his rough hands. Sophie threw her arms around his shoulders and added softly, “She likes your red bike.” She always wanted you to have one.
He had secretly bought the red Harley the week before the crash since Isla liked red.
People in biker circles and beyond heard about “the miracle child on Route 27.” People who didn’t believe it stated it was just a coincidence or a child’s imagination. But the folks who were there and saw Sophie push death back with her bare hands knew better.
Sometimes angels wear sparkly skirts and sneakers that flash instead of wings. They sometimes carry the voices of the dead. Jonas swears he can feel small arms wrap around his waist again when the engines roar and the sun starts to set.
Sophie merely smiles knowingly now that she’s older. “Is she going with you today?”
She always is.