The biker was the biggest man anyone in the diner had ever seen.
He stood nearly seven feet tall, with shoulders so broad that his black leather jacket seemed stretched across them. Gray threaded through his long beard. His forearms were covered in faded tattoos, and an old motorcycle-club patch was stitched across the back of his vest.
When he walked through the diner door that rainy Tuesday afternoon, every conversation seemed to disappear.
A spoon stopped halfway to someone's mouth.
A little boy stared openly from a corner booth.
Even Mrs. Dalton, who had owned the roadside diner for thirty-two years and claimed she wasn't afraid of anybody, lowered her voice.
"Don't stare," she whispered to the boy.
But the biker wasn't looking at anyone.
He simply walked toward the counter.
And nobody knew that, less than ten minutes later, that terrifying-looking stranger would be sitting on the floor beside a crying waitress, tying a faded red bandana around her injured knee.
Nobody knew what the bandana meant.
And nobody knew that he had carried it with him for twenty years.
Maya Carter had been having the worst shift of her life.
It started with a broken coffee machine.
Then table seven complained that their eggs were cold.
Table four wanted their pancakes remade because the blueberries were "too blueberry-ish."
A delivery driver arrived twenty minutes late.
The register froze.
Someone called in sick.
And at 3:40 in the afternoon, when the diner should have been quiet, a family of six walked through the door looking like they had been arguing since breakfast.
Maya smiled anyway.
She always smiled.
It was part of the job.
"Welcome in. Sit wherever you'd like."
The mother barely looked at her.
The father was busy checking his phone.
Three children ran toward the window booth.
The grandmother followed slowly behind.
Maya grabbed six menus.
"Right this way."
She had just turned when someone behind her shouted.
"Watch out!"
Maya spun around.
Too late.
A tray slipped from her hands.
A glass fell.
It hit the floor.
CRASH.
Orange juice splashed across the tiles.
A plate shattered.
Someone gasped.
Maya stepped backward.
Her heel landed on a piece of broken ceramic.
Her foot slipped.
She went down hard.
Her knee struck the floor.
Pain shot up her leg.
But that wasn't what made her cry.
It was the sound.
The laughter.
Someone at the counter snickered.
A teenager whispered something to his friend.
One of the children pointed.
"She fell!"
Maya quickly pushed herself up.
"I'm okay."
She wasn't.
Blood was already running down her knee.
But she forced herself to smile.
"I'm fine."
Then her shoe slipped again.
This time she couldn't get up.
She sat on the floor, one hand pressed against her knee, the other covering her face.
"Just give me a second."
Her voice cracked.
"I just need a second."
Mrs. Dalton came rushing from the kitchen.
"Maya!"
"I'm okay."
"You're bleeding."
"I said I'm—"
The front door opened.
A gust of cold air swept through the diner.
Then came the heavy sound of boots.
Step.
Step.
Step.
Everyone turned.
The biker had arrived.
He looked at Maya.
Then at the blood.