Some bikers were painting my mother’s house pink after she died at 4 a.m., and I didn’t know any of them.Some bikers were painting my mother’s house pink after she died at 4 a.m., and I didn’t know any of them.

I thought I was imagining it.

There were motorcycles lined up along the street—dozens of them, maybe more. Large, gleaming machines that looked out of place in the quiet residential neighborhood I had known my entire life.

And then there were the people.

Men and women in leather jackets, some with patches, some with bandanas, all moving with a kind of continue reading …