The Patch of Brotherhood
The midday sun beat down mercilessly over the dusty gravel lot behind the clubhouse of the Black Ridge Brotherhood. The dry Nevada heat radiated off rows of polished chrome and black iron, where a dozen heavy touring motorcycles sat parked outside the metal repair bay. Tools clattered inside, punctuated by the low hum of classic rock and the smell of hot motor oil.
Standing beside his bike, wiping a greasy wrench with a shop rag, was Dorien. He was a massive, battle-hardened man whose presence alone could clear a bar room. A thick, grey-streaked beard framed his weathered jaw, his arms were wrapped in faded military and biker tattoos, and across the chest of his worn leather cut were patches that commanded immediate respect throughout the entire county. Dorien was a veteran of foreign sands and asphalt wars alike, a man of few words whose past was locked behind a quiet, granite stare.
The heavy silence of the yard was shattered by the frantic crunch of rapid footsteps on loose gravel.
Running around the edge of the metal garage was a little boy. He could not have been older than seven. He was covered from head to toe in desert dust, his oversized t-shirt torn at the collar, and his worn leather boots kicked up small clouds of dirt with every frantic stride. His hair whipped wild in the dry wind, and tears carved clean lines through the dirt smudged across his pale cheeks. In his arms, clutched tightly against his small chest, was a folded piece of heavy dark denim.
He didn’t slow down as he reached the line of parked bikes. His frantic gaze swept the garage, locking onto Dorien's towering frame. With his last bit of breath, the boy sprinted straight toward the hulking biker.
"Please, sir!" the child cried out, his voice cracked with exhaustion and sheer panic. "Please, sir, buy it!"
Dorien turned slowly, his brow furrowing as he looked down at the tiny, breathless intruder. He tossed his wrench onto the workbench with a metallic thud.