The sun was going down at Pine Lake, painting the sky orange and pink. Maya sat under the old wooden pier, her thin arms wrapped around her knees. She was 17, small for her age, with dark hair that hadn’t been washed in 3 days. Her stomach made angry noises, reminding her that the last real meal she had was from a gas station dumpster yesterday morning.
From her hiding spot, Maya watched a group of big, scaryl lookinging men and women in black leather vests. Their motorcycles were parked in a row nearby, shiny and loud when they started them up. These were the Hell’s Angels, a motorcycle club Maya had heard about on TV. They were having a barbecue by the lake with music playing and meat cooking on grills.
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