Bikers Burned My House Down the Night Before the Bank Could Take It

gave me back my dignity.

I’d cried right there in the parking lot. A grown man, sixty-one years old, leaning on his truck and crying like a child.

Ray had put his hand on the back of my neck and said, “Don’t you dare apologize for that.”

I drove to the sheriff’s office in the same clothes I’d slept in.

The sun was up by then. Soft, thin, January sun. The continue reading …