I was driving home from work when I noticed a motorcycle stopped on the shoulder of Highway 52. At first, I almost kept going—people say bikers are tough, the kind who prefer silence to sympathy. But something about the scene made me slow down. The man beside the bike was kneeling in the grass, cradling something wrapped in a blue towel. His shoulders shook, and when he lifted his head, I saw tears tracing through the dust on his face.
