The 11-year-old girl hears the rumble of their motorcycles, rich and deep, long before she sees them. She chews her bottom lip, nervous.
They are coming for her.
The bikers roar into sight, a pack of them, long-haired and tattooed, with heavy boots and leather vests, and some riding double. They circle the usually quiet Gilbert cul-de-sac, and the noise pulls neighbors from behind slatted wood blinds and glossy front doors.
One biker stops at the mouth of the street, parks in the middle of the road and stands guard next to his motorcycle, arms crossed.
The rest back up to the curb in front of the girl's house, almost in formation, parking side by side. There are 14 motorcycles in all, mostly black and shiny chrome. The bikers rev their engines again before shutting them down.
The sudden silence is deafening. The girl's mother takes her hand.
The leader of this motorcycle club is a 55-year-old man who has a salt-and-pepper Fu Manchu and wears his hair down past his shoulders. He eases off his 2000 Harley Road King and approaches the little girl.
He is formidable, and intimidating, and he knows it. So he bends low in front of the little girl and puts out his hand, tanned and weathered from the sun and wind: "Hi, I'm Pipes."
"Nice to meet you," she says softly, her small hand disappearing in his.
Pipes - the bikers all go by their road names for security - steps back and another biker comes forward, also bent low and hand out, smiling. She has a long blond ponytail, and her name is Nytro. Next is D'Animal, his arms thick with muscles, a do-rag covering his head.
Rock, who is as solid as one, assures the little girl: "I'm really a nice guy." She smiles. And then there's Pumpkin and, whoa, the girl looks way up, squinting against the morning sun. "Hi, I'm Tree," he says, and he's as tall as one.
Sassy. Rembrandt. And then Harmony and Shiraz, and the child does a double take. Yes, there are two of them, twin biker chicks. Surely. Uno. Smiles. Tool. Mo Money. Bigg Dogg. Fat Daddy. Ghost Daddy. Father Time. And Trucker, who's louder than all the others.
The girl chewing on her lip was abused by a relative, according to police reports - someone she should have been able to trust. He's not in the state any longer, but the criminal case is progressing slowly, so he's not in jail, either.
He still terrorizes her at night, even though he's nowhere near. She wakes, heart pounding. The nightmare feels real again. She never feels safe, even with her parents just downstairs.
The unruly-looking mob in her driveway is there to help her feel safe again. They are members of the Arizona chapter of Bikers Against Child Abuse International, and they wear their motto on their black leather vests and T-shirts: "No child deserves to live in fear."
This one is very afraid.
There ought to be a law against people as good looking as you 
and me. 
There ought to be a law against people as good looking as you and me.