They called him Big Mike—six-four, beard to his chest, sleeves of faded military ink.
The kind of man you cross the street to avoid. The kind of man who found me curled between garbage bags behind his motorcycle shop at five in the morning, opened the door, and said five words that rerouted my life:
“You hungry, kid? Come inside.”
I’d run from my fourth foster house—the one where the dad’s hands strayed and the mom looked the other way. Three weeks on the street had taught me which dumpsters stayed warm, which alleys stayed quiet, and that cops only delivered you back to the problem you escaped.
