I’m already late picking up Mateo from school when I get stuck behind this wall of motorcycles at a crosswalk. Loud. Leathered. Covered in skull patches and scowls. One guy’s got flames tattooed up both arms and a beard that could house birds.

They’re lined up like a blockade, and I’m thinking—great, some kind of protest or ride-for-attention thing. Then I see her.

Tiny old woman, bent like a paperclip, standing at the curb with a cloth shopping bag and a tennis ball cane. She looks so small next to them. So breakable.

The first biker—beard guy—kills his engine. Continues…