By sunset, emergency vehicles began arriving.
A sheriff's SUV stopped near the road.
A deputy stepped out.
He studied the motorcycles.
Then the bikers.
Then Martha.
"Who is in charge?"
Dean stepped forward.
"Me."
The deputy looked at his vest.
"Name?"
"Dean."
"Last name?"
Dean remained calm.
"Why?"
The deputy's expression tightened.
"Because I need it for my report."
Martha stepped between them.
"Then write down mine."
The deputy looked at her.
"Martha Caldwell."
"Correct."
"You had seventy-nine people sheltering here?"
"Yes."
"All bikers?"
"Yes."
"And you know who they are?"
"No."
The deputy seemed confused.
"You don't?"
Martha shook her head.
"I knew a tornado was coming. I didn't require background checks before saving people."
Several riders exchanged looks.
Dean lowered his eyes.
The deputy eventually left.
But Martha noticed something.
He kept looking at the motorcycles.
Not the damage.
The motorcycles.
That night, Martha slept in the basement with twenty-three of the riders because the upper floor was unsafe.
The rest slept under tarps or in vehicles.
Before midnight, Dean approached her.
"We'll leave tomorrow."
Martha nodded.
"You don't owe me anything."
Dean looked at her.
"I know."
He paused.
"That's why we'll come back."
Martha smiled faintly.
"Don't make promises you can't keep."
Dean answered quietly.
"I don't."
Morning revealed the true scale of the destruction.