I’m the 6’3″ bearded biker people cross the street to avoid. But when I heard a 7-year-old crying in an alley at 2 AM, I found him freezing to death. His stepmom locked him out. She thought he was “trouble.”
Part 1 The night air cuts like a blade. The old Harley hums beneath me, a loyal beast. It’s the only thing that’s ever been loyal. The sky above is the color of steel, and the moon is a dull smear. My name is Jack Miller. I’m the kind of man most people avoid—broad shoulders,…