His mother dropped her grocery bags right there in the parking lot. Cans rolling across asphalt. She didn’t chase them. She just stood there with both hands over her mouth staring at her son.
I’d stopped for milk after a twelve-hour shift. Still in my leather vest. Still smelling like exhaust and sweat. This kid broke away from his mom and came straight to my Harley like nothing else in the world existed.
He was maybe seven. Small for his age. He put both hands flat on the gas tank and closed his eyes like he was listening to something inside the metal.
Then he said it. Clear as a church bell.
“Daddy rides angels.”
His mother was beside him in seconds, pulling at his shoulders. “Tommy, come here. I’m so sorry, he doesn’t usually approach strangers. He doesn’t approach anyone. He hasn’t spoken since his father—”
She stopped. Because Tommy was looking directly at me. Not at the bike. At me. At the patch on my chest.
