man named Bear.
Bear’s the president of my chapter. Six foot five, hands like catcher’s mitts, a beard you could lose a wrench in. Scary as a coming storm to anybody who doesn’t know him. Soft as warm bread to anybody who does. He fosters rescue dogs nobody else will take. He runs a boxing gym for neighborhood kids and never charges a dime. He is, flat out, the best man I have ever known.
He answered on the third ring, voice thick with sleep.
“Bear,” I said. “Wake up. I need you.”
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I told him the whole thing in about twenty words. A girl, a baby, a trunk, a man chasing them. Bear didn’t ask me a single thing twice.
“Bring ’em to the clubhouse,” he said, and I
