A modern fictional story inspired by "the Good Samaritan" in Luke 10.
The sun was baking Highway 60 in New Mexico like a skillet. Heat shimmered on the asphalt. Miles of open nothing stretched out in every direction.
Thunder rolled in the distance, the kind of summer monsoon storm that could turn dry ground into a mudslide in ten minutes flat.
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On the open road, wind in my face… -- Image by ChatGPT imaging.
From somewhere down the highway came the soft, distant roar of an approaching motorcycle. He was on the last leg of his journey, but the biker was still enjoying the wind in his face.
He looked like the road had been working on him for years. Six-foot-four, built like a refrigerator with arms, tattoos from knuckles to collarbone, and a beard that looked about three weeks past a trim. A leather vest patched with faded rock tour logos. Three days of dry camping through Arizona and New Mexico had left him smelling like a combination of motor oil, campfire, and the inside of a well-traveled boot.
He had just left Pie Town — full of actual pie and questionable coffee — and was cruising toward home in Truth or Consequences. His Harley rumbled like a distant storm, its saddlebags stuffed with dusty gear and one still-warm slice of pecan pie wrapped in foil.
That's when he saw it: an old, dented pickup truck in the ditch, nose down like it had tried to tunnel to Texas. The front end was crumpled, steam puffing from the radiator. Inside, a man slumped over the wheel.
The biker slowed, pulled over, and killed the engine.
For a moment, he just sat there.
A few vehicles passed, and not one of them slowed down or even tried to stop. That irritated him.
The rider swung off his Harley, boots crunching in the gravel. He popped open his saddlebag, pulled out a water bottle, and carefully made his way down into the ditch, testing each step on the rain-softened slope.
"Hey," he said, voice gravelly but steady. "You breathing?"
The man stirred. His face was pale, sweat beading on his forehead. A cut above his eyebrow trickled blood.
The biker offered the water, then pulled a small first-aid kit from his vest. He had enough old military first-aid training to know what mattered first. He cleaned the wound, checked for signs of a concussion, then dialed 911.
When the operator asked for his name, he paused.
"Doesn't matter. Just send an ambulance to mile marker 102. Got a guy here who needs help."
The rain came fast. Sheets of water blurred the road. The big man stayed with the driver, keeping him talking and holding his raincoat over him as best he could.
A State Police cruiser arrived first. The trooper made his way down the slope and immediately began helping.
"Any idea what we're dealing with?"
The biker shook his head. "He's hurt, and I didn't want to move him until somebody with more training got here."
The trooper agreed.
Several minutes later, an ambulance and firetruck arrived.
In rural areas, a paramedic was not always close by. The ambulance crew and a firefighter with medical training examined the injured man and decided it was safest to wait for the paramedic before attempting to move him. In the meantime, they placed a cervical collar around his neck and continued monitoring him.
When the paramedic finally arrived, everyone worked together to carefully and safely remove the driver from the pickup.
While all of this was happening, the biker found himself looking at the old truck differently. The worn interior. The driver's faded clothes. The things scattered inside.
Something felt off.
He could not explain it, but the feeling settled somewhere deep in his gut.
Once the driver was secured inside the ambulance, the firefighters determined the scene was stable and the firetruck pulled away. The ambulance followed soon after.
The trooper finished his notes while the tow-truck driver pulled the damaged pickup from the ditch, secured it to the truck, and prepared to haul it away.
The biker should have been ready to leave too.
But he wasn't.
Something about the injured man still weighed on him, deeper than he could explain.
He stopped the tow-truck driver.
"Where are you taking the pickup?"
"Socorro," the driver said. "Only shop for miles."
"Thanks."
With that, the tow truck rumbled away with the damaged pickup in tow. The last State Police cruiser pulled out soon after.
The biker climbed onto his motorcycle but did not start it right away.
He sat there for a moment, staring down the highway. That same uneasy feeling had not gone anywhere.
Something just wasn't right.
In a sudden moment of clarity, he fired up the bike and headed east toward Socorro.
Just outside Magdalena, he caught up with the tow truck. He stayed several lengths behind it all the way into town and followed it to the body shop.
The tow-truck driver climbed out and headed toward the back of the truck to begin unloading. When he noticed the motorcycle pull in behind him, he walked over.
"Is there a problem?"
"No, not really. Could you tell me which hospital they would have taken that man to?"
"Sure. There's only one hospital in town."
The driver gave him directions.
A few minutes later, the motorcycle rumbled away.
At the hospital, the biker approached the front desk.
"Not long ago, an ambulance brought in an injured man from Highway 60. I just wanted to know if he's all right."
The woman behind the desk studied him for a moment.
"Are you family?"
"No. I found him at the accident and called for help."
She shook her head slightly. "I can only discuss a patient's condition with family."
"Understood. Thanks anyway. I had to ask."
She stood and reached across the desk to shake his hand.
"Thank you for being there with him."
As their hands met, something small folded into his palm.
His eyes flicked toward hers for a moment. She gave the slightest nod and let go.
He walked over to the lobby, sat down, and unfolded the note.
He will be OK in time.
He folded it again and slipped it into his vest.
The news should have settled something in him.
It didn't.
Home was not far away. He headed there with the same uneasy feeling still riding with him.
At home, the kids ran up and hugged him—then stepped back, wrinkling their noses.
"You stink!"
His wife smiled but kept her distance while he told her what had happened. He ended with the same thing that had followed him home.
"Something still doesn't feel right."
She studied him. "What is it?"
"I think that man is in serious financial trouble. I don't know that for sure, but I can't shake the feeling that all of this is going to bury him."
"Before you do anything, shouldn't you find out more about him?"
"I can't. I don't know who he is or where he lives."
She thought for a moment.
"You've told me plenty of times that one reason you wanted the business to succeed was so we could help people when we had the chance. You've given to the church. You've supported local outreach. This sounds pretty much like you."
That was enough.
He called the hospital and asked for the financial services department. He explained that he had been the person who found the Highway 60 accident and wanted to cover any medical costs the injured man's insurance did not.
Then he looked up the body shop in Socorro and made a second call.
Whatever insurance did not cover on the pickup, he would.
For the first time since leaving mile marker 102, the knot in his gut finally loosened.
His wife smiled.
"That is so you—one of the many reasons I married you. Now, your barber is on the way, the maintenance guy is polishing your bike, and you're not just some biker. You're the owner and CEO of Averica AI."
She pointed toward the stairs.
"Now get that big backside of yours upstairs and take a shower."
He did.
Later, clean-shaven, freshly trimmed, and finally smelling like someone who had not spent three weeks riding through the western states, he came back downstairs.
He held up one finger.
"Wait a minute."
A few minutes later, the microwave beeped.
The smell of warm pecan pie drifted through the kitchen.
This time, she hugged him without hesitation.
Inspired by Luke 10:25-37
Synopsis:
Sometimes the harder choice begins after stopping would have been enough. At mile marker 102, a biker helps an injured stranger, yet an uneasy feeling keeps pulling his attention beyond the immediate accident. The Good Samaritan faces that same question of how far compassion is willing to go once another person's need has crossed our path.
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