The men who stepped off their bikes weren’t strangers. They were Jim’s brothers—not by blood, but by bond. Veterans, riders, men who had served with him and ridden with him. Since the funeral three months ago, they had disappeared from our lives. Now, they were back.
At the front stood Bear, Jim’s closest friend since their Army days. In his weathered hands, he carried something that made my knees weak—Jim’s helmet.
But it didn’t look broken like the last time I’d seen it. It had been restored, polished until it shone like new.
“Ma’am,” Bear said softly, eyes hidden behind dark glasses but rimmed red from emotion, “we heard Tommy was struggling. Jim would’ve wanted us here.”
Before I could answer, he added, “There’s something you need to see. Something Jim left for his boy.”
