"They won't come inside unless you want them to. We can leave everything on the porch."
The woman looked down.
For several moments, she said nothing.
Then whispered, "I can't pay anyone."
The old biker shook his head.
"Nobody's asking."
Her eyes filled.
She tried to speak.
Failed.
Then finally asked, "Why?"
He looked toward the pink bicycle.
Then toward the child.
"Because a six-year-old shouldn't have to sell her bike to feed her mama."
The mother's face crumpled.
She covered her mouth.
The little girl reached for her hand.
"Mommy?"
The woman knelt again.
She wrapped her arms around her daughter.
And began crying.
The old biker remained several feet away.
He understood that the woman needed a moment.
He did not crowd her.
Did not touch her.
Did not tell her everything would be fine.
He simply stood beside his motorcycle and waited.
The neighbors noticed when the motorcycles arrived.
At first, there were two.
Then three more.
Then another pair.
Finally, eight large motorcycles rolled slowly into the neighborhood, their engines rumbling beneath the golden evening sky.
They parked along the curb without blocking driveways.
The riders dismounted.
Most wore black leather vests.
Several had tattoos covering their forearms.
One had a thick red beard.
Another was bald, with a broad chest and powerful shoulders.
A younger rider wore a dark denim shirt beneath his vest and carried two enormous grocery bags.
The men looked intimidating.
The supplies they carried did not.
Milk.
Eggs.
Bread.
Fresh vegetables.
Fruit.
Rice.
Beans.
Pasta.
Peanut butter.
Cereal.
Chicken.
Soap.
Toilet paper.
Laundry detergent.
A few warm blankets.
And several containers of hot food from a nearby diner.
One rider carried a small bouquet of yellow flowers.
When another man asked why he had brought flowers, he shrugged.
"Women like flowers."
The older biker gave him a look.
"Brother, this isn't a date."
The man frowned.
"People still like flowers."
A few riders laughed.
The old biker shook his head.
Then turned toward the porch.
The mother stood frozen.
Her daughter gripped her hand.
The little girl looked delighted.
"So many motorcycles."
One rider smiled.
"That we have, little lady."