One of them removed his sunglasses slowly. Another swallowed hard. The man with the gray beard turned back toward my landlord.
“You didn’t tell us the whole story,” he said.
The room felt heavy. The air thick with something unspoken.
One biker pointed gently at a photo. “I knew him,” he said quietly. “He was respected. He looked out for others.”
The leader nodded. “And you brought veterans here to put his family on the street?”
No one answered.
A Different Kind of Ending
The bikers stepped outside together. They spoke quietly among themselves. I sat on the couch, shaking, unsure of what was happening. My children leaned against me, silent now, watching.
After several minutes, they returned.
The man with the gray beard handed my landlord a piece of paper. “This covers what she owes.”
My landlord stared at it, stunned. “You don’t know her.”
Then he turned to me.
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