She Gave Up Her First-class Seat To A Scarred Biker – The Next Morning, 99 Motorcycles Showed Up At Her Door
At 6:47 the next morning, I woke up to a sound I couldn’t place.
Low. Deep. Rolling. Like thunder that wouldn’t stop.
My mom was already at the front window, coffee mug frozen halfway to her mouth.
“Colleen,” she whispered. “Colleen, come here.”
I padded over in my socks and looked out.
The entire street was filled with motorcycles. Not ten. Not twenty. I counted them later from the porch – ninety-nine. Harleys, Indians, a few I didn’t recognize. Chrome catching the early Oklahoma sun like a river of mirrors. And every single rider was parked, engine idling, looking at my mother’s house.
The biker from the plane was in front. He swung off his bike, pulled something from his vest, and walked up the porch steps. Behind him, all ninety-eight riders killed their engines at the same time. The silence after that thunder was deafening.
My mom grabbed my arm. “Do you know that man?”
I opened the front door.
He was holding an envelope. Not a small one. Legal-sized, thick, with a wax seal I didn’t recognize.
“I didn’t get to introduce myself on the plane,” he said. His voice was quieter than I expected. Almost gentle. “My name’s Terrance Wojcik. Most people call me Clutch.”
“I’m Colleen,” I managed.
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