The one that says I'm not mad, just disappointed you thought I was stupid. She knelt down beside him, joints protesting, and set her grocery bag on the ground. What do you need? The biker finally looked at her, really looked at her, and something in his face cracked. Gas, he said quietly.

And water. My bike's out. I've been stuck here since yesterday. Nobody. He trailed off, but Loretta heard the rest of the sentence in the silence.

Nobody stopped. She opened her small purse, hands moving past receipts and cough drops and the folded church bulletin from last Sunday. Her fingers found the $5 bill, the one she'd set aside for the bus, the one that meant she'd have to walk 2 miles to service if she gave it away. She pulled it out anyway. This will get you where you need to go," she said, pressing it into his palm.

"Take it. " He stared at the bill like it was a foreign object. "You don't even know me. " Loretta smiled, the kind of smile that had survived decades of hardship and still somehow carried light. "God knows you, baby. That's enough. " The biker opened his mouth to respond, but the words caught in his throat. His hand closed around the $5, fingers trembling.