"That's enough, Tyler."
Tyler shrugged.
"We're joking."
"Then find something else to joke about."
But Tyler wasn't finished.
"Look at her," he said to his friends. "She comes here every week like this place is her therapy office."
His friend laughed.
"Maybe she's here for sympathy pie."
The three men laughed again.
Emily's fingers tightened around her pen.
She tried to ignore them.
She had learned to do that.
But then Tyler said the words that hurt more than anything else.
"Hey, cripple. Maybe you should smile. Nobody likes looking at a sad face."
The diner became strangely quiet.
Emily closed her journal.
She placed it carefully inside her backpack.
Then she reached for her crutch.
Jenny watched her.
"Emily..."
"I'm okay," Emily whispered.
But she wasn't.
She stood and slowly made her way toward the door.
Her limp became more obvious whenever she was nervous or tired.
The three men laughed again.
Emily pushed open the door.
Cold rain touched her face.
She walked away without looking back.
Behind the counter, Jenny stared at the three men.
"One day," she said quietly, "someone is going to teach you what respect means."
Tyler laughed.
"Yeah? Who?"
Jenny didn't answer.
Because she didn't know.
Not yet.
The Men at the Gas Station
Three miles down Route 68, five motorcycles were parked outside an old gas station.
The riders wore black leather jackets, heavy boots, and patches identifying them as members of the Hells Angels Motorcycle Club.
To most people, their appearance was intimidating.
To the people who knew them, however, they were simply five men and women sharing coffee before continuing their ride.
Among them was a large man everyone called Bear.
His real name was Michael Dawson.
But almost nobody used it.
Bear stood six feet four inches tall, had a thick gray-black beard, and carried enough muscle to make him look like someone who could bend a steel door with his hands.
But there was something most strangers didn't know.
Bear had a daughter named Hannah.
She was sixteen.
And she had been born with a physical disability.
Bear had spent most of her life watching strangers stare at her.
He had seen children laugh.
He had heard adults whisper.
He had watched his daughter pretend she didn't notice.
That was why he noticed Emily.
She passed the gas station slowly, her yellow sweater bright against the gray afternoon.
Her crutch tapped against the wet sidewalk.
Bear watched her face.
He recognized that expression immediately.
It wasn't simply sadness.
It was the expression of someone who had learned not to expect kindness from strangers.
Bear lowered his coffee.
"Who's that kid?"
One of the bikers looked over.
"Don't know."
Bear watched Emily disappear around the corner.
"Something's wrong."