To earn his place, Eli was expected to endure a grueling list of chores and humiliations:
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Cleaning the clubhouse bathrooms after meetings.
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Guarding the motorcycles during overnight events.
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Fetching beer and sweeping the mechanic's shop.
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Accepting insults in absolute silence.
He had spent almost a year desperately trying to prove he belonged. Wade had told him more than once, “You want the patch, you learn not to embarrass the men wearing it.”
Eli had believed that. But then he looked into his mirror.
The old man was shaking, trying to pick up a bright orange near the highway's white line. A massive delivery truck thundered past, passing close enough that its aerodynamic wake whipped the old man's heavy, wet coat. He stepped backward and nearly lost his balance.
Eli looked ahead. Wade and the others were already signaling their turn into the gas station. If Eli broke formation now, they would notice. If he stopped to help the old man, Wade would call him soft—or worse. With his final patch review just two weeks away, eleven months of blood, sweat, and silence could evaporate over a single decision.
In the mirror, the old man bent down again. His left hand shook terribly, and one knee barely seemed to cooperate.
Eli cursed under his breath, downshifted, and turned the motorcycle around.
Hearing the approaching engine, the old man moved further away from the road, anticipating another cruel splash. Instead, Eli stopped his bike twenty feet away, killed the motor, and removed his helmet. The cold November wind of northern Arkansas instantly bit at his face.
“I’m not going to hurt you, sir,” Eli said, his voice steady but cautious.