Every Tuesday at 4 PM, without fail, a little girl walks into the laundromat, climbs into my lap, and cries like her world is falling apart. She’s no more than seven or eight, small enough to disappear into her oversized coat, but her eyes carry the weight of someone much older—maybe older than me, though I’m sixty-eight.
They call me Ray. I’m the kind of old biker that makes strangers cross the street, just by the look of me—leather vest covered in patches, hands rough from years of working on motorcycles, a beard so thick it could hide a family of raccoons. People see me and assume I’m trouble. Kids usually avoid me.