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Nothing about that day seemed destined for anything unusual until the moment six motorcycles rolled into the gravel lot outside and lined up with an almost deliberate neatness, their engines ticking as they cooled, chrome catching the light. The men who stepped off them wore worn leather and patches stitched with care, and their presence carried the quiet weight of people who were used to being judged before they ever opened their mouths. They weren’t there to make a point or to be seen; they were there because the road was long and hunger was honest, and burgers were the same in most places if you didn’t look too closely at who was serving them.
Inside, in the corner booth where the sunlight struggled to reach, sat a little girl in a wheelchair. Her name was Eliza, and her legs were wrapped in a soft gray blanket, the kind a mother keeps folded in the backseat just in case. Her hair was pulled into a loose ponytail, secured with a blue ribbon that looked carefully chosen, like her mother had wanted the day to feel normal even if nothing else did.
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