They came at 7 AM sharp—forty-seven engines growling, boots crunching like thunder. Not to intimidate, but to protect. My son, Tommy, hadn’t gone outside since the funeral. He clung to me, terrified I’d vanish like Daddy did. Then he heard them—the rumble of Harleys. “Why are Daddy’s friends here?” he whispered. At the front stood Bear, Jim’s best friend, holding something I hadn’t seen since the police returned it—Jim’s helmet.
