“My husband had a dog like that,” she said. “Helped him through the war. Through our hardest years. I know what that bond means.”
More people got on at the next stop. A teenager with headphones. A mother with two kids. A businessman in a suit.
And one by one, they sat down nearby. Not too close. But close enough to show they cared.
The teenager took off his headphones. The mother held her kids close and wiped her eyes. The businessman put away his phone.
Nobody said anything. We just sat there together, bearing witness to this man’s grief.
The biker noticed. Looked around at all of us.
“You don’t have to stay,” he said.
“We want to,” the old woman replied.
He broke down then. Sobbed openly while strangers surrounded him with silent support.
“I don’t know how to do this without him,” he admitted. “I don’t know who I am without him.”
The train pulled into the Coney Island station. End of the line.
The biker stood up carefully, cradling Sergeant against his chest. We all stood too.
“I can’t thank you enough,” he said, looking at each of us. “You didn’t have to stay. But you did.”
“Let us walk with you,” the old woman said. “To the beach. If that’s okay.”
He nodded, too emotional to speak.
So we did. A strange procession of strangers following a crying biker off the subway and toward the ocean. The teenager helped hold doors open. The businessman carried the biker’s bag. The mother explained to her kids what was happening in gentle words.
“That man’s dog is very sick, babies. We’re helping him say goodbye.”
