I’ll tell you what I know that they don’t.
The night that little boy needed somebody to find him, it wasn’t a police officer. It wasn’t a neighbor or a teacher or a clean-cut man in a clean new car.
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It was a gray old biker with grease under his nails and bad knees, who pulled over on a freezing dark highway because his daddy taught him to, fifty years ago, and the lesson stuck.
And I would do it again a hundred times over. A thousand.
You see somebody stuck out there in the dark, you stop.
Doesn’t matter one bit what they think of you.
