The first time I saw her, Sarah Mitchell, she was in a grocery store parking lot, tears streaming down her face, holding the hand of a little girl who could barely stand from exhaustion. I froze when I saw the bike in front of her — my stolen 1978 Harley Davidson, the last project I had shared with my son Tommy before Afghanistan claimed his life.
She had no idea it was mine. Her desperate stance, the worry in her eyes, and the way she clutched the bike as if it were the only thing keeping her afloat struck me instantly. My heart raced, torn between anger and concern.
For three months, I had been searching for that Harley, chasing leads that went nowhere. Police reports, classifieds, tips from strangers — every clue had led to disappointment. Each night, I stared at the empty garage, haunted by the memory of Tommy working on the bike.