My kitchen — the same kitchen Sarah used to dance around on Sunday mornings — was full of bikers. Real, leather-clad, steel-booted bikers.

One was kneeling under the sink, replacing the rusted pipes I had been “meaning to get to.”
Another had the toaster oven open, rewiring it carefully.
A third was mopping the floor with the kind of focus usually reserved for church pews.

A huge man with gray streaks in his beard looked up from reinstalling a cabinet door.

“You must be Robert,” he said.
“Sorry about the mess. We’re almost done.”

I blinked. “What on earth is happening here?”

He wiped his hands and offered a calloused, grease-stained handshake.

“Name’s Pike. I run the Dust Devils Motorcycle Club. Sarah used to serve us breakfast down at the Rusty Spoon.”

I stared at him.

“You broke into my house to… fix it?”

He shrugged like this was the most natural explanation in the world.

“She told us you were stubborn. Said you wouldn’t ask anyone for help. Told us — and I quote — ‘kick the door in if you have to.’”