The diner had been loud until the little boy walked in.
Not obnoxiously loud.
Just the familiar afternoon noise that filled Franklin’s Roadhouse every Saturday when the Iron Wolves Motorcycle Club occupied the two largest booths near the back windows.
Coffee cups hit saucers.
Forks scraped plates.
Someone laughed too hard at a story Snake had probably told a dozen times before.
Leather vests creaked whenever one of the men leaned forward.
The jukebox near the kitchen played an old country song quietly enough that nobody had to compete with it.
Outside, fifteen motorcycles stood in a crooked line beneath the late-afternoon sun.
Inside, the men who rode them looked exactly like the sort of people parents warned children not to bother.
Big Tom Callahan sat at the end of the largest booth.
At sixty-one, Tom had the kind of face that seemed carved rather than aged.
Deep lines ran beside his eyes.
His swept-back gray hair touched the collar of a worn black leather vest, and his short gray beard made his square jaw look even heavier.
His shoulders were broad enough to make the diner booth look small.
A faded tattoo disappeared beneath one sleeve of his black T-shirt.
Across from him sat Snake Reynolds, thin and sharp-eyed, with a gray streak running through his dark beard.
Beside Snake was Big Jake Mercer, who weighed nearly three hundred pounds and had hands that looked capable of bending a wrench.
Nobody at the table noticed the diner door open at first.
The bell above it made a light metallic sound.
Then the conversations nearby began stopping.
One table.
Then another.
Tom noticed the silence before he noticed the boy.
He turned.
A child stood just inside the entrance.
Maybe five years old.
Six at most.
Short dark hair.
Brown eyes.
Blue T-shirt.
Dark pants.
And tied around his shoulders was a bright red Superman cape that somehow managed to hang backward.
The boy looked around the diner with the expression of someone who had entered the wrong room but had already decided he was not leaving.
One hand held a crumpled piece of paper.
The other was stained blue and black from marker ink.
Tom watched him.
The boy saw the motorcycles outside.
Then the leather vests.
Then Tom.
He started walking.
Straight toward them.
A waitress named Carla stopped beside the counter.
"Miguel?"
The child ignored her.
He kept coming.
Snake leaned back.
"Well, look at this."
Nobody laughed.
There was something about the boy's face that made joking feel wrong.
He reached the table.
Tom looked down at him.
The boy looked up.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then Miguel slapped the crumpled paper onto the table.
Not hard.
But with enough determination that Tom's coffee spoon jumped against the saucer.
The uneven letters across the top read:
DADDY'S FUNERAL - NEED SCARY MEN
Nobody at the table moved.
Miguel lifted his chin.
"My mom said I'm not supposed to ask you."
Tom slowly looked from the paper to the boy.
"Ask us what, little man?"
Miguel swallowed.
His confidence wavered for half a second.
Then he pointed at the paper.
"My daddy's funeral is tomorrow."
The air around the table changed.
Snake stopped smiling.
Jake lowered his coffee.
Tom's expression softened.
Miguel continued.
"My mom cries all the time."
His voice became smaller.
"And these mean boys at school said Daddy won't get to heaven if nobody scary protects him."
Tom's eyes moved toward the paper again.
Miguel pushed it closer.
"So I need scary men."
Nobody spoke.
Miguel looked around at the bikers.
"You look scary."
Jake coughed into his fist.
Snake stared at the table.
Tom carefully unfolded the paper.
It was not really a funeral notice.
It was a drawing.
Crude little motorcycles made from circles and lines surrounded a brown rectangular shape that was obviously meant to be a coffin.
Inside the rectangle was a crooked cross.
Some of the motorcycles were red.