Marcus returned at the exact same hour, carrying a large cup of steaming coffee.
I hadn’t tasted real coffee in months. The hospice served instant packets that tasted like burnt cardboard diluted in warm dishwater. What Marcus brought me was the real thing — strong, fragrant, rich.
He stayed for an hour.
Then two.
Then three.
And when he finally left, he gripped my hand and said,
“See you tomorrow, brother.”
Brother.
A word my own sons hadn’t spoken to me in years.
THE DAY THE ROOM CHANGED FOREVER
On the fourth day, Marcus didn’t come alone.
I heard it before I saw it — the unmistakable rumble of motorcycles rolling into the hospice parking lot. The windows shook. Nurses peeked through the blinds. Patients whispered down the hallway.
Then the door burst open, and Marcus walked in with four bikers behind him—men and women wearing patched leather, heavy boots, weathered hands, eyes full of history.
Marcus nodded toward me.
“This is him.”
They entered respectfully, forming a circle around my bed. And one by one, they introduced themselves:
“Name’s Shadow.”
“I’m Red.”
“Call me Tank.”
“I’m Mae.”
Veterans, former firefighters, widows, wanderers, survivors.
A small army of souls society tended to overlook.
“We heard you served,” Tank said, removing his gloves. “We wanted to thank you.”Continue reading…
