His face went blank again. Armor on. “Tuesday,” I said. “Four sharp.” He slipped out into the cold. “What the hell are we doing, Mason?” Tank asked. I walked to the window. Watched the small figure disappear into the dark. “We’re doing what nobody else has,” I said. “We’re answering a call.”

Tuesday arrives cold and gray. 3:58 PM, I’m in the garage pretending to tinker with the carb on a ‘68 Harley that hasn’t run in two years. At 3:59, I hear the clubhouse door creak open. Like clockwork.

Logan stands just inside, hoodie zipped up to his chin, a backpack slung over one shoulder. There’s a fresh bruise peeking out from under the other eye this time. Fainter. Older. Fading. He’s trying to hide it. But I see it.

“You’re early,” I say, wiping my hands on a rag.

“You said not to be late.”

Fair point.

I hand him a broom and point to the oil-stained floor around the lifts. “Start here. Sweep toward the roll-up. Watch the cords. Don’t knock over the jack.”

He nods, gets to work without another word.

And damn if he doesn’t do it like his life depends on it.

Most kids, you give them a job like sweeping and they half-ass it. But Logan? He moves with precision. Corner to corner. Gets under the shelves. Even stops to pick up a bolt and put it in the bin marked “3/8s.” He doesn’t miss a beat.

An hour in, I bring him a bottle of water and catch him staring at the chrome pipes on Reaper’s custom build.

“Like bikes?” I ask.

He shrugs. “They’re cool, I guess.”

“You ride?”

He shakes his head. “Never had a bike. Not even a pedal one.”

I chew that over. I had my first dirt bike at seven. Crashed it into a barbed wire fence, got twenty stitches and a lifetime love affair.

“We’ll change that,” I say before I think twice.

He looks up, surprised. I let it hang there.

Next week, he’s back. Thursday. Then Saturday. Never late. Always quiet. Works harder than the prospects. Tina starts packing extra sandwiches when she knows he’s coming. And he always says thank you, even if he never smiles.

One night, two weeks in, I find him in the back shed reorganizing socket wrenches no one asked him to touch. I squat next to him, set down a chocolate milk and a wrapped sandwich.

“Anyone ever teach you about ratchets?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I watch.”

“Well, watching’s good. But better if you know what you’re lookin’ at.”

I spend the next half hour showing him how to tell the difference between metric and standard, how to feel for stripped threads, how to torque without snapping a bolt.

He soaks it in like a sponge.

By the end of the month, he’s not just working—he’s learning.

And we’re watching.

Tank stops giving him crap. Reaper leaves a set of gloves out with Logan’s initials scribbled in Sharpie. Tiny acts of care from men who don’t usually give a damn. The clubhouse becomes his after-school hideout. A sanctuary wrapped in steel and leather.

But bruises keep showing up.

Different spots. Logan always has a story ready. Fell on the steps. Ran into a door. Got hit with a soccer ball. I’ve heard them all before. Hell, I’ve used a few when I was his age.

I can feel the burn in my chest every time he lies to cover someone else’s sin.

Then comes the night everything shifts.

Saturday. Club’s hosting a charity ride for a local vet with cancer. Everyone’s outside, engines rumbling, beers flowing, kids climbing over the rows of Harleys like jungle gyms. Logan’s helping Tina carry plates when a beat-up sedan screeches to a stop in the gravel lot.

Out stumbles a man—sweaty, red-faced, fists already balled.

“You little shit!” he roars, eyes locked on Logan. “You think you can run off, huh? You think you can hide with these people?”

Logan drops the tray.

The man charges forward, finger jabbing.

“I been callin’ the state all damn week! You belong to me, you little thief! You think these bastards are gonna save you?”

I step in.

Fast.

Put my arm between them. “Back off.”

The guy stinks of booze and rage. I can smell the rot in his teeth.

“Who the hell are you?” he snaps.

“Name’s Mason. This is our clubhouse. You’re trespassing.”

He tries to sidestep me. I block him again.

“You touch that boy, you won’t walk out of here.”

“Boy’s my foster kid,” he spits. “You don’t got rights.”

Logan is frozen behind me. Pale. Shaking.

“You put hands on him?” I ask, voice low.

He laughs like a man used to getting away with it. “What if I did? You gonna call the cops? Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Wrong answer.

Tank steps up. Then Reaper. Then Joker. One by one, patched members form a wall behind me.

“Leave,” I say. “Now. Before things go bad for you.”

He blusters. Threatens. Shouts something about lawyers and the state.

But he leaves.

Tires screeching as he peels out.

When the dust settles, Logan just stands there. Quiet. Unmoving. Like he’s trying to disappear.

I kneel down, eye level. “You okay?”

He nods.

But he’s not.

That night, I make some calls.

A buddy of mine, Ben, works Child Protective Services. Ex-Army. Trustworthy. Quiet. Doesn’t let things slip.

I tell him everything. Ask what can be done.

Ben listens, then sighs.

“Unless the kid talks,” he says, “our hands are tied. Unless you get him to tell the truth.”

So the next day, I bring Logan into the garage early. Just him and me. The bay doors are open, breeze coming through, scent of motor oil and metal hanging thick.

“Logan,” I say, handing him a can of orange soda. “I need you to tell me the truth.”

He stiffens.

“You’re not in trouble,” I add. “But I need to know. That guy yesterday—does he hit you?”

Silence.

His grip tightens around the can.

I wait. I don’t push. Just let it breathe.

Then, in the smallest voice I’ve heard from him, he says, “Sometimes.”

I nod. “Okay. That’s enough.”

“He hits the other kids too,” Logan whispers. “But they don’t talk. They’re scared.”

I call Ben. He moves fast. Real fast.

By Wednesday, Logan’s out of the Turner house. So are three other kids. Temporary placement, emergency foster care. Logan doesn’t say much about it, but I can see the weight lift off his shoulders.

Weeks pass. He still shows up to work. Still sweeps. Still asks questions about torque specs and tire pressure. But there’s more life in him now. A bit of color in his cheeks. One day, he even laughs—full belly laugh—when Tank accidentally glue-guns his own glove to a fuel tank.

And then comes the big one.

I’m in the back office when Tina knocks.

“You better come out here,” she says, eyes wide.

I walk out and see Logan standing by a bike.

Not just any bike.

My bike.

My baby. Custom paint. Vance & Hines exhaust. Saddle brown leather seat I stitched myself.

And Logan’s holding a wrench.

“I didn’t touch anything,” he says quickly. “I swear. I was just looking.”

I step closer. He’s studying the frame like he’s trying to memorize it.

“It’s a 2006 Dyna,” he says. “But you swapped the bars, right? And those forks—they’re custom.”

I blink.

“You know your bikes.”

He shrugs, embarrassed.

“You want to learn how to ride?” I ask.

His head jerks up. “Really?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Real slow. On the back lot. Just you, me, and this old girl.”

His eyes light up. First time I’ve seen him look like a kid.

We start lessons that weekend. He’s cautious but sharp. Feels the balance better than most grown men. Picks it up fast.

And when I see him grin as he takes a slow loop around the gravel, I know.

We didn’t just give him a job.

We gave him a future.

A place.

A family.

Months later, when Ben finalizes his new foster placement, he calls me.

“We got a family,” he says. “Nice folks. Stable. Want to take Logan long-term.”

I thank him, hang up, and find Logan tightening bolts in the garage.

“Hey,” I say. “Ben found a family for you. Real one. Wants to meet you.”

He looks down. Doesn’t speak.

I let it sit.

After a moment, he says, “Will I still be able to come here?”

“You’ll always have a place here,” I say. “Dead Ravens take care of their own.”

His mouth trembles. But he nods.

He goes to the meeting. They like him. He likes them. It’s not perfect—but it’s a start.

And every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, at 4 PM sharp, he still shows up.

Tina saves him a sandwich. Tank lets him ride shotgun on short runs. I teach him to rebuild engines.

He’s still got those duct-taped shoes. But he walks taller now.

He knows he belongs.

Because the day he walked into our clubhouse looking for a job…

He found a family instead.