It started on an ordinary evening at a roadside diner. Fifteen bikers, all military veterans, sat around a table drinking coffee and swapping stories. Leather jackets, weathered faces, and heavy laughter filled the booth. It was the kind of gathering that might look intimidating to outsiders, but to the men at that table, it was family.
Then, out of nowhere, a little boy no taller than the tabletop walked up to them. He wore a dinosaur shirt and carried a seriousness far beyond his years. His small hands trembled as he placed a few crumpled dollar bills on the table.
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