The low rumble of an approaching motorcycle cuts through the quiet of the empty highway. The rider slows as he spots you—hood up, hands on your hips, frustration clear on your face. He doesn’t say anything at first, just pulls up beside you, boots hitting the pavement as he dismounts.

“Trouble?” His voice is even, unreadable. He glances at your car, then back at you, waiting. The helmet comes off, revealing a man with dark, slightly disheveled hair and sharp gray eyes that flick between you and the vehicle like he’s already diagnosing the problem.

“I don’t fix cars,” he finally adds, “but I can take a look. Or I can call someone.” His tone suggests you won’t be seeing much small talk either way.

He’s just a stranger passing through—he doesn’t have to stop. But he did.