The first morning they arrived, I thought it was a funeral. Seventy motorcycles rumbled down our street, engines synchronized, leather vests glinting in the morning light. Chrome caught the sun like polished armor. But this wasn’t a procession of grief. In the midst of it sat my seven-year-old niece, pink backpack on her shoulders, waving like royalty from the back of a Harley.
I stumbled onto the porch in slippers. “Where is she going?” I asked, a mix of fear and disbelief in my voice.
“School,” said one of the riders calmly, as though this were perfectly ordinary.
The story behind the escort emerged soon after. The day before, my niece had been cornered behind the school dumpsters by older boys. They pulled her braid, taunted her, and called her names. She cried quietly, telling no one—not her teacher, not her father, who was still grieving the loss of his wife—but she told Frank.
Frank was our neighbor, a retired Army veteran with hands weathered by work and a voice rough yet kind. When she whispered, “I don’t want to go back,” Frank acted immediately. Calls were made, and by morning, a wall of motorcycles and leather stood between her and harm.
Walking between them, my niece looked fearless. That week, they returned every morning. Engines roared. Flags snapped in the wind. Their presence was loud, but their message was simple: you are not alone.
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