It was just past midnight at the diner, a place that was more of a haven than a business at this hour.
The storm outside was relentless, battering the windows with an intensity that felt personal.
I was alone, going through the usual motions of cleaning up, trying to ignore the anxiety gnawing at me.
Then they arrived.
About twenty-five bikers, dripping wet, their leather jackets shining with rain.
They moved in quietly, filling the space with their presence.
“We need a place to warm up,” one of them said, his voice rough but not unfriendly.
I pulled out every extra blanket I had.
Offered coffee and hot food, knowing it might leave me short for the morning crowd.
The hours crept by, the storm showing no signs of stopping.
