His back hurt, his stomach was empty, and all he had wanted was one hot meal before riding home to the apartment above the veteran’s garage.
Mabel’s biscuits had been in his mind for the last twenty minutes.
Then he saw the boy.
Duke swung one boot to the ground, unstrapped his gloves, and stood slowly.
He knew what he looked like.
Six feet tall, wide in the shoulders, beard threaded with gray, tattoos climbing his neck and hands, and a Hells Angel jacket that made people decide who he was before he opened his mouth.
The red and white patches across his back had followed him into gas stations, hospital waiting rooms, diners, and police reports.
People looked at the jacket and saw trouble.
Duke had stopped expecting anything else.
But a frightened child did not need a wall of leather and ink bearing down on him.
So Duke crossed the sidewalk at an angle.
Slowly.
Quietly.