Lisa Parker’s hands were chapped and red as she wiped down the sticky counter at Parker’s Diner for the third time that hour. The lunch rush, if you could call eight customers a rush, had ended and she was mentally calculating if today’s take would cover the electric bill that sat unopened in her purse. The final notice stamp had bled through the envelope.

Just a few more months, she muttered, tucking a strand of brown hair behind her ear. It was the same empty promise she’d been making herself for 18 months now, ever since her father’s massive stroke had put him in a care facility and her in charge of the family diner. Her nursing career in the city, her apartment, her life, all put on hold for a small-town greasy spoon that was bleeding money faster than she could bandage the wounds.

The ancient ceiling fan spun lazily overhead, barely moving the humid summer air. Outside, Millfield’s Main Street was quiet, as it always was these days, since the factory had cut the third shift. The bank had foreclosed on three businesses already this year.

Some days, Lisa wondered if Parker’s Diner would be next. The bell above the door jingled, that cheerful little sound her father had always loved, and Lisa glanced up. Her stomach tightened instantly.

A mountain of a man dressed in worn leather pushed through the doorway. His weathered face was half hidden behind a wild gray beard that looked like it had seen dust from a thousand highways. Faded tattoos crawled up his thick forearms, like illustrated stories of a hard life, disappearing beneath rolled-up sleeves.

But it was the patch on his vest that made the room go still, the unmistakable death’s head insignia of the Hell’s Angels. The handful of remaining customers froze. Old Mrs. Patterson actually clutched her pearls.

The Simmons brothers stopped mid-bite, forks hovering in the air. Even the radio seemed to hit a moment of static. The biker seemed to feel the tension, his massive shoulders hunching slightly, as he made his way to the counter.

Each heavy bootfall echoed against the worn linoleum like a hammer strike. He deliberately chose the stool at the far end, keeping distance between himself and the other patrons. A man used to being unwelcome, Lisa could practically hear her father’s voice in her head.

Everyone’s money spends the same at Parker’s. But her father had never had to serve a Hell’s Angel in their small, conservative town, where rumors about the motorcycle club circulated like gospel. Lisa steadied her hand, grabbed a cloudy plastic menu and a glass of ice water.

The other waitress, Jenny, had suddenly found a pressing need to refill ketchup bottles at the far end of the diner. Thanks for coming into Parker’s, Lisa said, approaching him with the same practiced smile she offered every customer. Today’s special is meatloaf with mashed potatoes.

Made it fresh this morning. The biker looked up, and Lisa was struck by his eyes. Pale blue and bloodshot, like he hadn’t slept in days.

Against that hard face, those leather creased features, his eyes seemed to belong to another man entirely. Coffee, he said, his voice surprisingly gentle, almost soft. Black as you can make it, and whatever’s fastest from the kitchen.

Been on the road since before sunup. As Lisa poured his coffee from the ancient percolator, she noticed his hands. Huge, calloused things that seemed built for violence, but there was a slight tremble to them as he reached for the mug.

His knuckles were scraped raw, and a thin hospital bracelet was partially hidden beneath his leather cuff. Behind the exhaustion in his eyes, Lisa recognized something else. A bone-deep sadness she’d seen too many times during her nursing rotations in the oncology ward.

It was the look of someone keeping vigil. Long ride ahead of you still, she asked, keeping her voice casual, the way her father had always chatted with strangers. His massive hands wrapped around the coffee mug like it was something precious.

Drawing warmth from the chipped ceramic. He took a long pull before answering. Heading back to Riverside Hospital, he said finally, each word deliberate, like speaking was an effort.

My daughter. Something seemed to catch in his throat. He stared down at his coffee, his knuckles whitening around the mug.

My daughter, he repeated, but couldn’t seem to finish the thought. Lisa felt something shift inside her. Not pity.

This man wouldn’t want pity, but a familiar ache of recognition. Not a hell’s angel in that moment. Just a worried father.

I’ll get that order in right away, she said, her voice softening. Toast and eggs work? Fastest thing on the menu? Six minutes? Tops. He nodded, the relief evident as his shoulders relaxed slightly.

Maybe it was the promise of food, or maybe just that she hadn’t asked him to explain further. As Lisa turned to place the order, she felt the stares from the remaining customers. Mrs. Patterson was whispering urgently to Mrs. Henderson, their gray heads bent together like conspirators.

The Simmons brothers were openly glaring. Jenny was still finding those ketchup bottles absolutely fascinating. Small towns had long memories, and the hell’s angels had a reputation that preceded them.

Twenty years ago, a group of bikers had roared through Millfield, leaving broken windows at Thompson’s Grocery after an argument. Never mind that no one knew if they’d been angels or some other club, in Millfield’s collective memory, all bikers were guilty by association. The bell jingled again, and two of Millfield’s police officers walked in, Officer Brennan and Officer Taylor.

They were regulars, usually friendly enough, though Lisa had always found Brennan’s swagger a bit much. They spotted the biker immediately, and Lisa saw Brennan nudge Taylor. They approached the counter, deliberately taking seats on either side of the man.

Well, well, don’t often see your kind in Millfield, Brennan said loudly, making no attempt to hide his hostility. Just passing through, I hope. The biker kept his eyes on his coffee.

Just getting some food, officer. Lisa returned with the plate of eggs and toast, placing it in front of the biker. Anything else I can get you? Before he could answer, Officer Brennan spoke up.

How about checking this guy’s ID, Lisa? Make sure he’s not one of those angels we’ve got bulletins about. The biker reached slowly into his pocket, but Brennan’s hand moved to his holster. Careful now.

Lisa felt her temper rising. He’s a paying customer, Brennan. Just like you.

Not just like me, Brennan smirked. His kind bring trouble, drugs, violence. My kind? The biker looked up for the first time, his voice still quiet, but with an edge.

You don’t know the first thing about me, officer. Brennan leaned in closer. I know that patch.

I know what it means. The biker started to respond, but Taylor cut him off. Maybe we should run your plates, see what comes up.

Several other customers were watching now, some nodding in agreement with the officers, others looking uncomfortable. The biker put his fork down. Look, I’m just trying to get some food before I visit my daughter at Riverside.