Next to the monster, a smaller stick figure. A boy with no hair and a straight line for a mouth. Inside the monster’s stomach.
“That’s me,” he said, pointing. “And that’s cancer. It’s inside my body. My mommy says it’s eating me.”
Five grown men who ride with a club called the Iron Ghosts. Men who’ve done time. Men who’ve buried more brothers than any of us can count.
Not one of us could speak.
I had a daughter named Sarah. She was seven and she had leukemia and she died on a Tuesday in March eight years ago. I quit my job the next week. My wife left me the year after. I’ve been on this bike ever since, riding from diner to diner because sitting still kills me.
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