On a late October day, traffic on Route 27 in Ashford appeared typical until a five-year-old girl in a sparkly fairy-tale costume shouted for her mom to stop the car.
Sophie Maren was a girl with tangled blonde hair, sneakers that lit up, and a willpower that seemed too big for her petite body. From the backseat, she was flailing against her seatbelt, weeping, and saying that “the motorcycle man” was dying down below the ridge.
Helen’s mother first thought her daughter was too tired from kindergarten. There was no wreckage, no smoke, and no reason to believe that anyone was hurt. Sophie, on the other hand, tried to get the buckle loose while crying because “the man with the leather jacket and beard” was wounded. Helen didn’t want to, but she pulled over to the side of the road to calm her down.
Sophie sprang out of the car before it had fully stopped, and her dress hem fluttered behind her as she rushed for the grassy drop. Helen went after her and then stopped.
There was a bear-sized man lying on the ground next to a black Harley that had been mangled. His vest had a worn-out patch on it, his chest was covered in blood, and his breathing was weak and wobbly.
The little kid didn’t think about it. She knelt down on the ground, ripped off her cardigan, and shoved both of her little hands into the biggest cut.
“Wait,” she whispered in a hushed voice, like if she had known him her whole life. “I’m not going anywhere.” They told you that you needed twenty minutes.
Helen’s hands were shaking as she asked for aid. She kept staring at her daughter, who spoke with calm authority, tilted the man’s head to open his airway, and put pressure on his chest wound with amazing accuracy.
“How did you know that?” Helen was shocked.
Sophie didn’t look up. “From Isla,” she added in a quiet voice. “Last night, she arrived into my dream. She said that her dad would crash and that I would have to help.
Jonas “Grizzly” Keller was harmed. He was riding his bike home from a memorial run when a pickup truck hit him and forced him off the road. He had already lost a lot of blood. But Sophie kept singing the same lullaby over and over again. Her princess dress was black with scarlet.
By the time the paramedics got there, a small gathering of people had already assembled. A physician bent down and told Sophie to move.
“Let us take over, sweetheart.”
“No,” Sophie exclaimed fiercely, continuing pushing hard with her hands. “Not until his brothers show up.” Isla said she would.
The EMTs stared at each other with anxious faces. Maybe shock, trauma, or hallucinations. But then, as they pulled Jonas up on the stretcher, the sound of motors rumbling filled the air.
There were a lot of motorcycles coming over the hill, and the valley sounded like thunder. At the same instant, everyone applied the brakes, and men hurried toward the scene with their boots hammering. The first cyclist, a huge guy with “IRON JACK” stitched on his vest, stopped when he noticed Sophie. His tanned face turned pale.
“Isla?” He said 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 three years before she turned six. She was the heart of their club, the girl who sat on chrome tanks during parades, and the little sister to every man who wore the patch.
Sophie looked up at Iron Jack, perplexed yet calm. “Hi, I’m Sophie.” Isla, on the other hand, says to hurry up. He needs O-negative, which you have.
The big man almost fell. 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.
“Isla?” he replied in a hoarse voice.
Sophie whispered in a low voice, “She’s right here.” “She just borrowed me for a little while.”
The bikers constructed a chain to help Jonas get to the top of the slope. When the doors of the ambulance closed, Sophie finally let go. She was small and shivering, wearing sequins that were covered in blood. Tough guys suddenly acted like she was a goddess.
Over the next three weeks, doctors determined that Jonas only lived because the artery had been put under pressure right away. They couldn’t figure out how the girl knew exactly what to do or how she knew names, blood types, and songs that no one else knew.
Sophie just shrugged her shoulders. “Isla told me.”
Sophie was taken in by the Black Hounds Motorcycle Club after that. They wore full leather to her school recital, which made the folding seats look small. They made a scholarship fund for Sophie’s future in Isla’s name. They let her sit on motorcycles in parades and assured her that when she was older, she could really ride them.
But the worst thing happened six months later. Sophie was chasing the dog in Jonas’s backyard when she suddenly stopped close to an old chestnut tree.
She told him, “She wants you to dig here.”
There was a note in a rusty tin box that looked like it was written by a youngster. It was clear that Isla wrote it.
“Angel said I won’t grow up, but one day a girl with yellow hair will come, Daddy. She’ll sing my song and help you when you’re hurt. “Trust her,” you should. “Don’t be sad; I’ll always be here for you.”
Jonas knelt down and wept into his rough hands. Sophie wrapped her arms around his shoulders and added quietly, “She likes your red bike.” She always wanted you to have one.
He had secretly bought the red Harley a week before the crash because Isla’s favorite color was red.
People who ride motorcycles and others heard about “the miracle child on Route 27.” People who didn’t believe it stated it was just a coincidence or a kid’s imagination. But the individuals who were there, who saw Sophie hold death back with her bare hands, knew better.
Angels don’t always have wings. Sometimes they wear sparkly skirts and sneakers that light up. They occasionally tell the dead what they want to hear. Jonas says he can feel small arms wrap around his waist again when the motors roar and the sun goes down.
Sophie merely smiles now that she’s older. “Is she riding with you today?”
She always is.