I looked at that photo every single day. I’d stopped really seeing it years ago.
But those bikers saw it. They noticed.
They noticed everything.
Lily was reading over my shoulder. “Maggie, are you okay?”
I shook my head. I wasn’t okay. I’d just treated fifteen veterans like criminals. Men who’d served their country. Men who’d just buried their brother. Men who responded to my disrespect with kindness and generosity.
“I need to find them,” I said.
“What?”
“The Iron Guardians. I need to find them and apologize.”
Lily pulled out her phone. “Let me look them up.”
It took her ten minutes to find their Facebook page. A motorcycle club for veterans based three states away. Photos of charity rides, toy drives, visits to VA hospitals. Men in leather vests reading to children at libraries. Men in leather vests building wheelchair ramps for disabled veterans. Men in leather vests standing honor guard at military funerals.
Men just like the ones I’d humiliated in my diner.
I found Thomas Miller’s profile. President of the club for fifteen years. Vietnam veteran. Former POW. Married forty-three years. Four children. Nine grandchildren. Ran a mechanic shop that gave free oil changes to single mothers and veterans.
