I ducked behind an SUV, hands trembling, as I dialed 911. “There’s a man destroying a car at Riverside Mall. He just smashed the window. Please send someone immediately.”
But the biker wasn’t stealing anything. He reached inside, carefully lifted out something small… something limp… a baby.
The biker cradled her, ran to the fountain nearby, and gently splashed water over her arms and legs. “She’s overheating,” he said calmly, “core temperature’s high. We need to cool her gradually.”
He explained he was a retired firefighter of thirty years. “I’ve seen too many kids left in cars. Fifteen minutes in this heat can kill.”
I ran toward him, abandoning my shopping bags. “Is she breathing?”
“Barely,” he replied, still controlled. “Paramedics are on their way.”
The baby started to whimper. Relief washed over him. “That’s it, sweetheart. That’s it.”
Within minutes, paramedics arrived, and the biker handed her over. He told them how long she’d been in the car and what he’d done to cool her safely.
Then the mother appeared. Designer clothes, shopping bags, terrified but defensive. “What happened to my car?” she demanded.
“She was unconscious from heat stroke,” the biker said calmly. “Your daughter was in danger.”
Police intervened, and the mother was taken in for questioning. Meanwhile, the baby—later named Lily—was rushed to the hospital.
I finally spoke to the biker. “I called 911 on you,” I admitted.
“You thought I was a criminal,” he said, tired but calm. “Most people would.” Continue reading…
