Veterans, former firefighters, widows, wanderers, survivors.
A small army of souls society tended to overlook.
“We heard you served,” Tank said, removing his gloves. “We wanted to thank you.”
I don’t remember the last time someone had thanked me.
The room, once hollow and lonely, now buzzed with warmth. They joked, they told stories, they asked about mine. They listened. Really listened. Not out of obligation, but out of genuine respect.
And for the first time in years, I felt… alive.
THE BROTHERHOOD RETURNS
They came every day after that.
Sometimes five of them, sometimes ten. Nurses began leaving extra chairs outside my door. Volunteers brought cookies. The hospice director, initially nervous, eventually admitted that my room had become “the happiest place in the building.”
The bikers never treated me like a dying man.
They treated me like a warrior.
Like family.
Like someone worth showing up for.
