The extra money is for you and your staff. Please use it however you need. We believe in taking care of people, even people who don’t trust us.
And Maggie—we noticed the ‘Help Wanted’ sign in your window. We noticed you’re the only one working the register. We noticed your hands shaking when you took our money. We noticed the photo behind the counter of you and a man in an Army uniform.
If that man was your husband, we’re sorry for your loss. If he served, we thank him for his service. And we want you to know that we would have protected this diner with our lives tonight. Not because you trusted us. But because that’s who we are.
That’s who Jimmy was.
Semper Fi, Thomas Miller, President, Iron Guardians MC.”
I read the letter three times. By the second time, I couldn’t see through my tears.
The photo behind the counter. My Robert. Dead six years now. Army sergeant who served two tours in Iraq. Came home with nightmares and a heart too weak from stress. Died of a heart attack at fifty-eight years old.
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.
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.
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