I pictured three guys, maybe.

Friday morning I heard the rumble two blocks away. Fourteen Harleys stopped at our curb, chrome winking, engines rolling like thunder. Javi’s eyes went wide. A mountain of a man with a beard to his chest held out a tiny leather vest. “You ready to ride, brother?”

They didn’t just ride—they flanked him. Guarded him. That little silver bike with its bent reflector and squeaky bell rolled down the middle of a double line of steel.

School froze. Cars pulled over. Teachers stepped outside. Someone reached for his phone like he might call the cops—then saw Javi grinning and lowered it.

The lead biker—Darek, I learned later—killed his engine, swung off, and walked Javi to the door. He knelt so they were eye to eye. “Anybody gives you trouble,” he said loud enough for everyone to hear