That answer hit me like a punch to the chest. I went to the window that day and watched them. The biker walked beside Richard, one hand lightly on his elbow, matching his pace. He waited as Richard boarded the bus, made sure the driver saw him, then stood there until the bus pulled away. Only then did he climb on his Harley and ride off.
The next Tuesday, I stopped them at the door. “Excuse me,” I said. “I’ve seen you both for months. You’ve got to tell me — how did this start?”
The biker looked embarrassed. “It’s nothing. I just help him get here safely.”
Richard smiled faintly. “He saved my life eight months ago.”
The biker’s shoulders tensed. “It wasn’t anything dramatic.”
Richard shook his head. “Son, you pulled me out of traffic. You saved me.”
So they came inside, and I brought them coffee. What I heard next still gives me chills.
Last February, Richard had stepped into a crosswalk near the bus stop. The traffic signal had malfunctioned. He thought it was safe. A delivery truck was barreling through the intersection. And a man on a motorcycle—this biker—saw it happen.
He dropped his bike right there in traffic, sprinted across the street, and pulled Richard back onto the curb. The truck missed them by inches.
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