My kitchen \u2014 the same kitchen Sarah used to dance around on Sunday mornings \u2014 was full of bikers. Real, leather-clad, steel-booted bikers.<\/p>\n
One was kneeling under the sink, replacing the rusted pipes I had been \u201cmeaning to get to.\u201d \nAnother had the toaster oven open, rewiring it carefully. \nA third was mopping the floor with the kind of focus usually reserved for church pews.<\/p>\n
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A huge man with gray streaks in his beard looked up from reinstalling a cabinet door.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou must be Robert,\u201d he said. \n\u201cSorry about the mess. We\u2019re almost done.\u201d<\/p>\n
I blinked. \u201cWhat on earth is happening here?\u201d<\/p>\n
He wiped his hands and offered a calloused, grease-stained handshake.<\/p>\n
\u201cName\u2019s Pike. I run the Dust Devils Motorcycle Club. Sarah used to serve us breakfast down at the Rusty Spoon.\u201d<\/p>\n
I stared at him.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou broke into my house to\u2026 fix it?\u201d<\/p>\n
He shrugged like this was the most natural explanation in the world.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe told us you were stubborn. Said you wouldn\u2019t ask anyone for help. Told us \u2014 and I quote \u2014 \u2018kick the door in if you have to.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n
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