It happened in a small-town diner, where a group of veterans—tough-looking bikers in leather jackets—had gathered after a long ride.
They filled a corner booth with their laughter until a boy, no older than eight, walked straight up to their table. His dinosaur-print shirt made him look even smaller as he spoke words that stopped every conversation around them: “Can you help me with my stepdad?” The boy, Tyler, set seven crumpled dollar bills on the table. His little hands trembled, but his eyes were steady. Big Mike, the club’s president and a grandfather himself, crouched down to his level.
