The lead biker, a massive man called Bear — Jim’s best friend since their Army days — walked up our driveway carrying something that made my heart stop. It was Jim’s helmet — the one he’d been wearing when the drunk driver hit him.

The one the police had returned in a plastic bag. The one I’d hidden in the attic because I couldn’t bear to throw it away. But it looked different now.

Restored. Perfect. Like the accident had never happened.

Bear knocked on our door, and when I opened it, his eyes were red-rimmed behind his sunglasses. “Ma’am, we heard Tommy was having trouble getting to school. Jim would’ve wanted us to help.”

“I don’t understand,” I said, staring at the helmet in his hands.

“How did you—”

“There’s something you need to see,” Bear interrupted gently. “Something we found