The first time they rumbled up, I thought it was a funeral procession. Seventy leather vests. Chrome glinting like knives. And in the middle of it, my seven-year-old niece, bright pink backpack strapped on, waving like a parade queen from the back of a Harley.
I ran outside in my slippers, heart in my throat.
“Where is she going?” I yelled.
“School,” one of the bikers said, like it was obvious.
Here’s what I didn’t know: the day before, some older boys had cornered her behind the dumpsters at recess. They called her “Trash Barbie” and yanked her hair. My niece didn’t tell anyone. Not her teacher. Not her dad (my brother, who’s been barely hanging on since his wife died last year).
But she did tell Frank.
Frank’s her neighbor. Retired Army. Runs a bike repair shop out of his garage and lets her sit on the seat while he works. She told him in a whisper: “I don’t wanna go back.”
