They found him lying by the side of Route 27 — a man, broken and barely breathing, his motorcycle twisted in a mess of steel and smoke a few feet away. Blood soaked the gravel beneath him, and the silence of the evening was broken only by the soft voice of a little girl, no older than five, sitting beside his shattered body. She wasn’t crying. She was singing. Her small hands, trembling but determined, were pressed against his chest in a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding. “Twinkle, Twinkle,