The clip ended before the blue flash.
Before the gasoline leak.
Before the jacket.
Before anything that made the scene understandable.
The caption called Ray an outlaw biker tormenting a homeless child.
His landlord had seen it.
Worse, he had also heard from somebody that dozens of people were sleeping inside the repair shop.
The braided biker answered the phone because Ray had not yet reclaimed his president patch.
I listened from across the room.
“Yes, sir.”
“No, sir.”
“Yes, I understand the lease.”
“No, they're not customers.”
“They needed somewhere warm.”
A long silence.
The biker rubbed his forehead.
“Yes.”
“I understand.”
Another silence.
“No.”
His tone changed.
“No, I'm not putting them outside at five in the morning.”
Everyone nearby went still.
He continued.
“The city warming center opens at seven.”
“We'll transport them.”
“But until then, no.”
He listened.
Then disconnected.
Ray asked, “How bad?”
The braided biker looked around the garage.
“Thirty days.”
One of the mechanics swore.
My stomach dropped.
“What does that mean?”
The braided biker looked at me.
“Means he’s terminating the lease.”
The repair shop employed six people.
I learned that in the next five minutes.
Six men depended on this building for paychecks.
One had three children.
Another was caring for his mother.
A third had just bought a house.
The knowledge hit me harder than the cold beneath the bridge.
“You can't lose this place because of us.”
Ray looked toward me.
“We voted.”
“I don’t care.”
“You should.”
“No.”
I stood.
“You gave us one night.”
“That was enough.”
“We'll leave.”
Ray’s expression hardened.
“It’s twenty-one degrees.”
“The warming center opens in less than two hours.”
“We can wait somewhere.”
“Where?”
I did not answer.
Because there was nowhere.
That had been the entire problem.
One mechanic approached.
He had voted against opening the shop.
I knew because I had overheard part of the debate at the clinic.
He looked furious.
Not at us exactly.
At the situation.
“My mortgage doesn't care about anybody’s good intentions.”
Ray nodded.
“I know.”
“You going to pay it if we lose the business?”
“If I can.”
“With what?”
Ray had no answer.
The mechanic kicked a rolling stool.
It slammed against a steel cabinet.
Ben woke.
I rushed toward him.
The mechanic saw his face.
His own anger disappeared instantly.
“Damn.”
He looked ashamed.
“Sorry, little man.”
Ben blinked.
“Mom?”
“I’m here.”
The mechanic turned away.
One of the men from our camp started packing his sleeping bag.
“We're going.”
Another person followed.
Then another.
Ray stepped into the center of the shop.
“Stop.”
The first man looked at him.
“You already did enough.”
Ray shook his head.
“This isn't about enough.”
The mechanic who had kicked the stool said, “He’s right.”
Everyone looked at him.
He rubbed both hands over his face.
“I’m pissed.”