Young enough to believe that consequences were something that happened to other people.
The first was Trent.
He wore a backward baseball cap and a tight black shirt stretched over a muscular chest.
The second was Cody, shorter and heavier, with an irritating laugh that sounded more like a bark.
The third was Liam.
He said little.
He mostly followed Trent.
But every time Trent made a joke, Liam smiled.
That was enough.
They were locals.
They knew everyone.
They knew which bars wouldn't throw them out.
They knew which gas stations would let them buy beer before checking identification.
They knew which streets belonged to them after midnight.
They walked into the Copper Kettle as though they owned it.
"Three coffees!" Trent shouted.
Betty looked up.
"And a plate of fries."
"Coming right up."
"And make it quick, sweetheart."
Betty's jaw tightened.
She had heard worse.
She had learned that arguing with drunk young men rarely improved anything.
The three boys slid into a booth.
The vinyl seats squeaked beneath them.
Arthur kept eating.
He didn't look at them.
That was his first mistake.
Or perhaps it was his best decision.
Either way, Trent noticed him.
Not his face.
The jacket.
Cody leaned toward him.
"Hey."
Trent looked over.
Cody pointed.
"Check that out."
Trent turned.
His eyes landed on Arthur's back.
The faded leather.
The patch.
The old man sitting beneath it.
A slow smile spread across Trent's face.
"You're kidding."
Cody laughed.
"What's he supposed to be?"
"Sons of Anarchy," Trent whispered.
Liam chuckled.
Trent leaned back.
"Look at him."
Arthur heard every word.
He kept his eyes on his plate.
"Guy probably needs a walker to get to the bathroom."
Cody laughed louder.
"Think the patch is real?"
"No chance."
Trent shook his head.
"Probably bought it at a flea market."
Arthur's fork stopped.
For half a second, something old moved inside him.
A memory.
A bar in 1974.
A broken bottle.
A man's fist.
The smell of blood.
The roar of motorcycles outside.
The instinct to stand.
The instinct to respond.
Arthur closed his eyes.
Then he breathed.
Once.
Twice.
The memory disappeared.
"Let it go," he whispered.
He took another bite of pie.
But Trent had already decided that Arthur was entertainment.
And young men who believe they have discovered a harmless target rarely know when to stop.
A Patch Is Never Just a Patch
Trent pushed himself out of the booth.
"Watch this."
Cody grinned.
Liam shook his head but followed with his eyes.
Trent walked toward Arthur.
His sneakers squeaked against the linoleum.
Arthur heard every step.
He kept staring at his coffee.
Trent stopped beside the booth.
"Hey, Grandpa."
Arthur slowly raised his head.
His eyes were pale and watery, but there was still something behind them.
"Can I help you, son?"
Trent smiled.
"Just admiring the jacket."
Arthur looked down at it.
"It's just a coat."
"A coat?"
"Keeps me warm."
Trent laughed.
"That's funny."
Arthur said nothing.
Trent leaned closer.
"That's a pretty serious patch."
Arthur's expression didn't change.
"You a real big bad biker?"
"No."
The answer came so quietly that Trent almost didn't hear it.
"No?"
Arthur shook his head.
"I'm an old man."
Trent glanced back at his friends.
They laughed.
He turned toward Arthur again.
"Then why wear that?"
Arthur looked at the jacket.
His thumb slowly rubbed the edge of one sleeve.
"Because it belonged to me."
Trent laughed again.
"What does that even mean?"
"It means exactly what I said."
Something about the answer irritated Trent.
He wanted fear.
He wanted anger.
He wanted Arthur to defend himself so he could mock him.
Instead, Arthur gave him nothing.
So Trent reached out.
He flicked the leather collar.
Arthur flinched.
Not because he was afraid.
Because touching a patched member's jacket was an act that carried a meaning Trent couldn't understand.
Arthur had spent decades learning what that leather represented.
Men had ridden through storms wearing it.
Men had slept beside burning motorcycles wearing it.
Men had bled for one another wearing it.
Some had died in it.
Arthur looked at Trent.
"Don't touch me."
His voice was steady.
His hands were not.
Trent noticed the trembling.
His smile widened.
"Or what?"
Arthur said nothing.
"What are you going to do?"
Trent leaned over the table.
"Call your biker buddies?"
Cody laughed from the booth.
Trent continued.
"Maybe rev your mobility scooter?"
Liam laughed this time.
Arthur lowered his eyes.
"You don't know anything about me."
Trent shrugged.
"You're right."
Then he tapped the death's-head patch on Arthur's chest.
"But I know you're old."
Arthur's jaw tightened.
"You look ridiculous."
The words landed harder than Trent realized.
Arthur didn't care about being called old.
He was old.
He didn't care about being called weak.
He was weak.
But ridiculous?
That word struck somewhere deeper.
Because the jacket wasn't a costume.
It was one of the last pieces of the man Arthur had been.
It carried names.
Places.
Promises.
Losses.
Trent leaned closer.
"Take it off."
Arthur looked at him.
"What?"
"I said take it off."
"No."
Trent's smile disappeared.
"I think you should hand it over."