I’m six-foot-four, close to three hundred pounds, covered in tattoos, and I spent years in the Marines before eventually finding my way into the motorcycle world.
People usually move aside when they see me coming.
That morning, though, it was a fifteen-year-old girl who made me stop in my tracks.
She was sitting on the courthouse steps with her knees pulled toward her chest, gripping a phone in both hands.
I heard her before I reached her.
“Please. Somebody. Anybody.”
She was crying.
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