# « Eight dollars and one hundred engines »
The night air on Easton Avenue tasted of gasoline and rain.
Sienna Clark stood under the flickering light of a dilapidated gas station, eight crumpled dollars in her hand — her last eight dollars — staring at the vending machine inside as if it were about to judge her.
This money was meant to pay for his daughter Maya’s breakfast the next day. But as thunder rumbled in the distance and a Harley engine coughed before dying, everything changed.
A man lay on the asphalt, his massive body trembling beside a chrome motorcycle. He gasped once, then again, one hand clutching his chest.
— Hey! How are you? Sienna called out.
The station employee poked his head out of the door, a cigarette dangling from his lips.
« Leave him alone, ma’am. He’s one of the Hell’s Angels. You don’t want any trouble. »
But Sienna couldn’t move. She saw the man’s face—grey, sweaty, his lips blue. He was dying. And no one was going to help him.
She looked at her eight dollars in her palm. Then at her trembling hands.
And she ran.
#1. The woman who was always there
That morning, Sienna’s alarm had gone off at 5 a.m., like every day. The small one-bedroom apartment she shared with six-year-old Maya smelled of laundry detergent and instant coffee. She poured the remaining milk into a half-empty cereal box, stretching out just enough for Maya to eat.
« Aren’t you eating, Mommy? » asked the little girl, rubbing her eyes.
Sienna smiled.
— I already took it, my love.
It was a lie.
She worked mornings at a laundromat, folding other people’s laundry for eleven dollars an hour, and evenings at a 24-hour diner. Her sneakers had holes in them, her car had been out of commission for weeks. The rent was still behind. Maya’s asthma inhaler sat empty on the counter. And yet—she smiled.
Her grandmother had raised her with one rule: *Kindness costs nothing, baby. And sometimes, it’s all we have left to give.*
This rule remained, even when life itself was no longer there.
#2. The gas station
At 11 p.m., after a double shift, Sienna counted her tips—twenty-three dollars—then walked three kilometers home. Her feet throbbed. Her stomach growled. She cut through the gas station to use the restroom.
That’s where she saw him — the biker.
Huge, at least 1.90 m, his arms covered in ink. On his vest, a patch: **HELL’S ANGELS**. He was leaning against his motorcycle, then suddenly collapsed.
Sienna froze.
All her instincts screamed: *Leave.*
All her fears whispered: *Those people only bring trouble.*
Then she saw her chest stop moving.
— Hey! Someone, call 911! she shouted.
The employee shrugged.
« Leave him alone. He’s probably high. »
The words pierced her like a blade. Years earlier, her grandmother had collapsed on a sidewalk. No one had stopped. Sienna was twelve years old when they called her—too late.
Not this time.
She sprinted inside, grabbed some aspirin and a bottle of water, and put them on the counter.
— How much is it?
— Six fifty.
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