“Dorothy. Dorothy Haskins.”
“Dorothy, I’m going to make some calls. We have resources. People who help with situations like this. We’re not going to let you sleep on the street tonight. Okay?”
Frank stepped outside. Came back fifteen minutes later with a smile. “Dorothy, we’ve got you a bed for tonight. A woman from our church runs a boarding house for seniors. She’s got a room available. $400 a month including meals. It’s not fancy, but it’s clean and safe and warm.”
I stared at him. “$400 a month? I only get $1,100 from Social Security. I can’t afford—”
“The first three months are paid for,” Tommy interrupted. “Our club has a fund for emergencies. This qualifies.”
“I can’t accept charity,” I said. “I can’t—”
“It’s not charity.” Marcus leaned forward. “It’s what family does for family. And you’re family now, Dorothy. Whether you like it or not.”
I started sobbing. These three strangers—these scary-looking bikers I’d been terrified of an hour ago—were offering me more kindness than my own children had in years.
They drove me to the boarding house. A beautiful old Victorian with a wrap-around porch. A woman named Martha met us at the door. She was sixty-something with gray hair and a warm smile.
“Dorothy! Welcome! Let me show you to your room.” She took my garbage bags and led me upstairs. The room was small but clean. A bed with a thick quilt. A dresser. A window that looked out on a garden.
