His tiny fingers were still stained with marker ink, and his Superman cape was on backwards.
The diner went dead silent as fifteen members of the Iron Wolves MC stared at this kid who couldn’t have weighed forty pounds soaking wet.
“My mom said I can’t ask you,” he announced, chin jutting out defiantly. “But she’s crying all the time and the mean boys at school said daddy won’t go to heaven without scary men to protect him.”
Big Tom, who’d done two tours in Afghanistan and had a skull tattooed on his neck, carefully picked up the paper. It was a child’s drawing of stick figures on motorcycles surrounding a coffin, with “PLEASE COME” written in backwards letters.
“Where’s your mom, little man?” Tom asked gently.
The boy pointed through the window to a beat-up Toyota where a young woman sat with her head in her hands. “She’s scared of you. Everyone’s scared of you. That’s why I need you.”
