Fourteen members of the Iron Valley Riders occupied the back corner, men with leather vests, gray beards, scarred hands, and the kind of watchful eyes that made strangers instinctively lower their voices.
They were not drinking heavily, making noise, or searching for trouble.
They simply looked like men who had lived long enough to recognize trouble before it announced itself.
At the center of their table sat sixty-five-year-old Raymond Keene, a retired firefighter whose broad shoulders had carried people through smoke-filled rooms and whose lined face held memories of losses he rarely discussed.
He had been raising his coffee when he noticed the child approaching.
The boy’s blond hair was messy, his jeans stopped too high above his ankles, and small holes showed near the toes of his worn sneakers.
Clutched tightly in his fist were several folded dollar bills and a handful of coins.
Every eye in the diner followed him.