I Asked a Bleeding Biker on the Curb if He Needed Help and He Said Save My Dog

table until the sun came up.

I still drive past the Shell station on I-65 sometimes.

I still slow down at Exit 92.

And every time I see a man on a motorcycle, especially the old ones, the gray-bearded ones in worn-out leather, I think about Mike Donovan.

I think about three minutes on a curb.

I think about how easily I almost walked past.

And I think about continue reading …