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At five in the morning, half-awake and reaching for the newspaper, I nearly screamed when I realized a large biker was asleep against my front door. He was bruised, bleeding, and barely breathing, his leather vest torn and his gray beard stained dark. Panic hit me instantly—until I noticed a folded note clutched in his hand, addressed to me by name with one urgent plea: please read before calling the police.
My fear froze into something else entirely as I opened it and saw my late son’s name written inside. The note explained that the man, a retired staff sergeant named Thomas Morrison, had served with my son David overseas and had made him a promise—one it took twelve years to keep. David had died in combat, and I had been told it was instant and painless.
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