I’m an accountant. I drive a Honda. Nobody in our family has ever been on a motorcycle.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Are you in the wrong wing?”
A big guy near the front stood up. Sixties, arms like tree trunks, eyes swollen from crying.
“You’re Mason’s dad.” It wasn’t a question.
“How do you know my son?”
He looked at the others like he was asking permission. A couple of them nodded.
“Sir, your boy’s been coming to see us every Saturday for about a year. Rides his bicycle over to our clubhouse on Mill Street.”
My stomach dropped. Mill Street was two miles from our house. Mason told us he went to his friend Tyler’s on Saturdays.
Continue on the next page:
