Every summer, she quietly set out cold water for passing bikers, a small act of kindness no one questioned.

It looked like kindness.

But kindness from strangers often came with complications.
It wasn’t until late that morning that someone finally pulled over.

The rider was a kid — probably no older than twenty-two — with a matte black helmet and a bike that was clearly older than he was. He parked a few feet away, killed the engine, and walked over slowly as if approaching something fragile.

He picked up the bottle.

Turned it in his hand.