The Day a Small Shadow Appeared on the Highway
My name is Garrett “Ridge” Lawson, and for most of my life, the road had been the only place that made sense.
I rode with a group called the Iron Vultures out of northern Arizona. We weren’t saints, but we weren’t the kind of men people imagined either. We kept to ourselves, lived by our own code, and rarely looked back. The past had a way of catching up with you if you stared at it too long.
That afternoon, the sun stretched wide across an empty highway just outside Flagstaff. The air shimmered above the asphalt, and the sound of our engines rolled like distant thunder across the open land. It was one of those rides where no one talked much. Just miles, wind, and the steady rhythm of machines doing what they were built to do.
