“Don’t.” I held up my hand. “Don’t you dare talk to me about the safety of those kids. I carried Jessica Meyer from her driveway to the bus for three years after her accident. I performed CPR on Tyler Brooks when he had an asthma attack. I’ve gotten every single child home safe through forty-two years of driving, even when the roads were sheets of ice and I couldn’t feel my fingers on the wheel.”
My voice broke then, something that hadn’t happened since Margaret passed five years back.
“And now I’m dangerous? Now I’m a threat?” I stood up, my old knees protesting. “You know what, John? You tell those parents who signed that petition that for forty-two years, I’ve been exactly who I am today. The only thing that’s changed is now they’ve decided to be afraid of a man they never bothered to know.”
I walked out of his office with what dignity I could muster. But inside, something was crumbling—the faith I’d had in a community I thought I belonged to.
Home wasn’t much comfort that night. Our little ranch house felt emptier than usual without Margaret. She’d been gone five years, but sometimes the silence still caught me off guard. I wandered out to the garage where my 2003 Harley Road King waited, its midnight blue paint gleaming under the fluorescent lights.
