I panicked when I saw a biker sleeping on my porch—until I noticed the note clutched in his bloodied hand.
It was 5 AM on a Tuesday. I’d gone out for the newspaper and nearly tripped over him—a massive man in leather, curled against my door like he’d been left there. His gray beard was matted with dried blood, his breathing shallow. My first instinct was to run inside and call 911.
Then I saw the paper in his fist. My name, scrawled in shaky handwriting: “Mrs. Elizabeth Chen – PLEASE READ BEFORE CALLING POLICE.”
Hands trembling, I pulled the note from him. He didn’t stir. His leather vest was torn. His face bruised purple and yellow. The note read:
“Mrs. Chen, I knew your son David. I was with him in Afghanistan when he died. I promised him something. I’m sorry it took me twelve years to keep that promise. Please don’t let them take me to the hospital. Just need to rest. Then I’ll explain everything. – Staff Sergeant Thomas Morrison, Retired.”
David. My David. Dead twelve years this month.
I stood frozen in my nightgown, staring at this stranger who claimed to have held my son as he died. Against every instinct, I brought blankets, first aid, and sat beside him, cleaning his wounds.
Continue reading on next page…