They sat in the back, quiet and respectful, speaking softly to my young waitress and stacking their plates neatly when they finished. When they left, there was no mess, no trouble, just the low rumble of engines fading into the night. Then my waitress called me over, her voice shaking. On their spotless table sat an envelope with my name written carefully across the front. Inside was extra cash and a note that unraveled everything I thought I knew. They were veterans, every one of them, riding home from a funeral for a brother they had lost. They stopped because they saw the American flag in my window. They understood my distrust, they wrote, but wanted me to know who they were beneath the leather.
