Her hands are clasped in front of her, fingers twisting nervously.
"I'm so sorry to bother you," she says, her voice breathless with worry. "But you look like you might be from around here?"
"I am." I set down my napkin, giving her my full attention. "Is everything okay?"
"I don't know. I hope so." She glances toward the door, then back at me, her expression growing more distressed. "There's a little girl outside. She was walking down the street alone, and I couldn't just leave her there. She's maybe three or four, blonde hair, won't talk much. I think she's lost."
My heart clenches.
A lost little girl.
Three or four years old. Blonde. Alone and scared.
The same age my child will be someday.
"Did you call the police?"
"I tried, but my phone died." She holds up a dark screen, frustrated. "I've been walking around trying to find someone who might know her. I was hoping someone here might recognize her. Know who her parents are." Her voice cracks slightly. "She won't tell me her name, just keeps saying she wants her mommy. She's so scared, and she won’t come with me either."
I think about the clubhouse, all the families that live here.
The kids running around the courtyard.
A three-year-old blonde girl—that could be any number of children.
Hell, she could be one of ours.
"Where is she?"
"Just outside, around the corner. I didn't want to scare her by dragging her into a bar full of strangers." The woman's eyes are pleading, her voice earnest. "Could you come look? Just for a minute? Maybe you know her family. I just want to get her home safe."
I hesitate.
RJ's voice echoes in my head:Don't go anywhere alone. Stay where I can see you.
But this is a lost child.
A scared little girl who can't find her mother.
And the woman doesn't look threatening—she looks like a worried stranger trying to do the right thing.
The kind of person who stops to help because it's the decent thing to do.
The compound is right here.
The bar is twenty feet away.
I'll be gone for two minutes, max.
"Yeah, of course." I slide out of the booth, grabbing my bag. "Lead the way."
We walk out of Bubba's into the bright afternoon sun.
The courtyard is still busy, the sounds of the compound carrying on the warm breeze.
Motorcycles rumbling. Tools clanging. Someone laughing in the distance.
"She's just over here," the woman says, leading me around the corner of the building. "She was sitting on the curb when I found her. Poor thing was crying her eyes out."
