While I was filling up my car at a Shell station, a kid in pajamas and no shoes ran across the parking lot. There were military symbols and skulls on my leather vest.
The child ducked behind my Harley right away when a pickup truck sped around the curve behind him. It was like a leaf in a hurricane rocked his whole body. Parts for Harley
The man who came out of the truck had no beard, wore a polo shirt, and looked like a good suburban parent who goes to church and coaches Little League. But the boy’s fear was clear.
“Where is he?” The man came up to me with the assurance of someone who had never been told no before. “Where is my son?”
I kept filling up my tank as the youngster crouched behind my bike to attempt to blend in. I answered, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Parts of a bike
I pointed to the dumpster and added, “You should know that you can throw away phones.” “Kids these days are smart.”
At that point, three additional bikes came to the station. I departed early for the same late-night ride, and my brothers from the Widowmakers MC were on their way back. Tank, Preacher, and Ghost were all veterans of the Vietnam War who had seen enough horrible things to realize what they were right away.
“Is there something wrong, Hammer?” Tank asked when he got off his bike. He is six feet four inches tall, weighs 300 pounds, and has arms like tree trunks.
I said, “The man here lost his son,” very carefully. “All I said was to look somewhere else.”
The man was in a different mood. When four big motorcyclists went up against one suburban mom, the math didn’t add up for him anymore.
He tightened whatever he was covering by hand and said, “It’s a family matter.” “I don’t want any trouble at all.”
The pastor answered, “We don’t either,” and then he moved to the other gas pump, obstructing the man’s view of my bike. “Just got back from filling up.”
He stood there for a long time performing math. He then went back to looking at his truck. Tell him that his dad is looking for him when you see him. Tell him that his sister wants him to return home.
He drove off, although not very far. I could tell that the truck parked across the street in the McDonald’s lot was watching.
I whispered, “Kid, he’s gone.”
Tyler crawled out in his soiled and torn clothes. He is not my true dad. Two years ago, he married his mother. He hurt her this evening. Not good. She told me to get away and ask for help. But as I looked back… His voice broke.
Tank bent down, and his face was soft. “Son, where does your mom live?”
Tyler gave it to Ghost, who then used a burner phone to call 911 and report a possible case of domestic abuse and ask for a welfare check.
I said to him, “We need to get you to a safe place.” “Police station?”
“No!” Tyler was about to yell. They are his friends. They come to our house for barbecues. My story won’t be believed. They always doubt me.
I looked at my brothers. We’ve all seen the system let down folks who needed it the most before.
The preacher said that there was a diner about six miles down the road. My cousin is in charge of it. has a lot of people who can see it, security cameras, and is always bustling.
I said to them, “I’ll take the child.” “Stay with us so we don’t get caught.”
Tyler looked scared. “On the bike?” Clothes and parts for motorcycles and motorcycles
Tyler suddenly thought of his phone. “He can find my phone!”
Tyler’s mother was still alive. She almost got away with her life.
A boy who was afraid ran to the scariest-looking guy at a gas station and asked for help. Games that everyone in the family can play
And that stranger decided to be the boy’s hero when he absolutely needed one.
That’s how people who ride motorcycles act. We speak up for those who can’t speak up for themselves.
Even if they are six-year-olds running away from monsters that seem like dignified men but wearing shabby pajamas and no shoes.
Especially back then.