My hands shook as I dialed the number.
“How many people you expecting at this funeral?” Sam asked after I explained.
“Maybe thirty. Family, some teachers. None of his classmates.”
“The ones who bullied him—they coming?”
“Principal said they’re planning to, with their parents. To ‘show support.’” The words tasted like acid.
Sam was quiet for a moment. “We’ll be there at nine. You won’t have to worry about a thing.”
I didn’t understand what he meant until I saw them the next morning—a sea of leather vests, weathered faces, and solemn eyes. The Hell’s Angels patches visible as they formed two lines leading to the small chapel, creating a corridor of protection.
The funeral director approached me, panic in his eyes. “Sir, there are… numerous motorcycle enthusiasts arriving. Should I call the police?”
“They’re invited guests,” I said.
When the four boys arrived with their parents, confused expressions turned to fear as they saw the bikers.
