Part 1

The rain was the only thing that ever seemed to visit. It tapped on the grimy window of my room at St. Martin’s Home for Boys, tracing lines down the glass like thin, gray tears. I watched them race. It was a stupid, silent game, but it was better than watching the cracks in the ceiling.

My name is Brics Miller. I’m seventeen. And for as long as I can remember, I’ve been a ghost.

My room was a closet that the state legally had to call a bedroom. A sagging cot, a metal desk scarred with names of boys long gone, and a three-drawer dresser. That was it. That was my world. On the cot, I held the only thing that mattered—a photo, bent and soft as old cloth. My mother, smiling, holding a baby. Me. My father, standing tall beside them, his hand on her shoulder.

I traced the outline of his face. “I don’t even remember your voices,” I whispered to the silence. The photo was my one secret, my one connection to a life I never got to have. It lived under my pillow, a flat, paper heart beating against the lumpy mattress. Every night, I’d take it out, and every morning, I’d hide it, terrified someone would find it. Terrified someone would take the only thing that proved I ever came from somewhere.

Heavy footsteps echoed in the hall. Thump. Thump. Thump.

My stomach instantly turned to ice. It wasn’t just the sound. It was the weight of the steps, the arrogant pause between them. It was a sound that meant pain was coming. I shoved the photo under the lumpy pillow just as the door slammed open, hitting the wall with a crack that made the plaster dust snow down.

It was Dex. Of course it was Dex.

He filled the doorway, flanked by his two shadows, Mark and “Tiny,” who was anything but. Dex had mean, spiky hair and eyes that always looked hungry, like he was searching for something to break. He lived on a diet of fear, and I was his favorite meal.

“Hey, orphan boy,” he sneered. The word “orphan” always dripped from his mouth like poison, heavy and slow. “Still talking to your ghost parents?”

Mark and Tiny snickered, that wet, stupid sound that always followed Dex around.

I said nothing. I just stared at my own hands, resting on my lap. They were rough, with dirt caked under the nails from my weekend job. I focused on a small cut on my knuckle. If I don’t look up, I’m not here. I’m invisible. If I’m a ghost, he can’t touch me. It was a lie I told myself every day, and it never worked.

“Cat got your tongue, scumbag?” Dex shoved my shoulder. Hard. The impact jolted me on the cot, and I had to grab the metal frame to keep from falling.

“Leave me alone,” I muttered, the words barely audible, tasting like ash in my mouth.

“What was that?” Dex cupped his ear, a cruel grin spreading across his face. “I can’t hear you, loser.” He shoved me again, harder, his knuckles digging into my shoulder blade. “I said, what… was… that?”

“He said, ‘leave him alone.’”

We all turned. Mrs. Peterson stood in the doorway. She was a short, tired-looking woman with gray hair in a bun and eyes that had seen too many boys like me and too many boys like Dex. She was the buffer between our small, miserable world and total anarchy.

“It’s dinner time, boys. Go wash up.” Her voice was soft, but it carried an authority that even Dex wouldn’t challenge. Not right now.

He scowled, his face twisting. “Whatever.” As he left, he deliberately swept his arm across my desk, sending my books crashing to the floor. The sound made me jump, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. The heavy thud of the books hitting the linoleum felt like another shove.

Mrs. Peterson sighed, her gaze lingering on the scattered books. “Don’t let them get to you, Brics. They’re just… angry boys. Scared of being alone, same as everyone else here.” She left, and the smell of industrial cleaner and boiled cabbage from the hallway followed her.

I kneeled and picked up my books. One of them was an old, battered first-aid manual.

Six months ago, the local community college had offered a free weekend CPR course. I signed up because it was a way to get out of St. Martin’s for two days. I signed up for the free donuts and the chance to be in a room that didn’t smell like bleach. I didn’t expect to be good at it. But the instructor, a kind paramedic named Mike, had put his hand on my shoulder. “You’ve got healing hands, kid,” he’d said, his eyes kind. “You’re a natural.”

It was the only compliment I’d received in… well, ever. I had read that manual cover to cover, then read it again. I memorized every step, every ratio, every warning. Scene is safe. Check for response. Call for help. Start compressions. It felt like holding a secret, a small, tiny piece of power in a life where I had none.

The next morning was Saturday. My alarm was the silence. I woke before the sun, before the noise of the home started, before the ghosts of the day had a chance to rise. I put on my worn-out jeans, a faded blue t-shirt, and my only jacket—a thin windbreaker that did nothing against the morning chill but was better than nothing.

My weekend job: delivering the Clarksburg Gazette. The pay was almost nothing, but it was mine. It bought me notebooks, socks without holes, and the occasional candy bar I’d eat in secret. Mostly, I was saving it. In ten months, I’d be eighteen. I’d be “aged out.” Thrown out of St. Martin’s with a trash bag of my things and nowhere to go. The thought was a constant, cold stone in my gut. Every paper I delivered was one more dime in a jar that felt impossibly empty.

The streets were empty. My breath plumed in the cold air. The heavy canvas bag, stained with newsprint, dug into my shoulder. Fifty-three papers. I knew the number. I knew every cracked sidewalk, every barking dog, every house on my route.

My route ended at the edge of town, where the nice suburban houses gave way to old, tired-looking buildings and shops with faded signs. This was where I always got nervous.

The smell of fried food, stale beer, and hot coffee meant I was at Joe’s Diner.

Every Saturday morning, Joe’s was territory. Not civilian territory. The street was lined with motorcycles. Not just any motorcycles—these were Harleys. Big, loud, chrome-and-steel monsters that rumbled like resting dragons. And they all belonged to the Hells Angels.

Their leather jackets, or “cuts,” had the patches. The skull. The name. They had long beards, tattoos that snaked up their necks, and voices that were loud, gravelly, and always laughing.

My rule for passing Joe’s was simple: Keep your head down. Don’t make eye contact. Be invisible.

Invisibility was my superpower. It was how I survived St. Martin’s. It was how I survived the world. If no one sees you, no one can hurt you.

I clutched the strap of my bag, my pace quickening. Just three more papers to deliver, and I could circle back, go “home,” and disappear into my books.

But something was wrong.

The air felt… different. Tense. Heavy. Usually, I’d hear deep laughter or the clack of pool balls. Today, there was a strange, frantic energy. More bikes than usual were parked outside, almost like a swarm. Through the greasy front window, I could see people moving. Fast. Too fast.

A knot tightened in my chest. Don’t look. Keep walking, Brics. Not your problem. Nothing is ever your problem.

I was about to cross the street when a scream cut through the morning air.

It wasn’t a “you-scared-me” scream. It wasn’t a “mad-at-someone” scream. This was a sound I’d only heard in my nightmares. It was the sound of a soul being ripped apart. It was pure, undiluted terror.

My feet froze. The scream came from Joe’s Diner.

Every instinct I had, every lesson I’d learned from Dex and the shadows at St. Martin’s, screamed at me to run. Run, hide, disappear.

But I didn’t.

Something—that CPR instructor’s voice, maybe?—pulled me toward the door. I saw more chaos inside. Someone knocked over a chair; it clattered to the floor. A massive man with a gray beard and a “President” patch on his vest was pacing, his hands pulling at his hair.

Before I could second-guess it, my legs were moving. I pushed the door open. The little bell above it chimed, a stupidly cheerful sound in the middle of hell.

The smell of bacon and terror hit me.

The diner was silent for one split second as every single person—at least thirty bikers—turned to look at me. The skinny, trembling paperboy standing in the doorway.

Then the chaos swallowed me.

In the center of the diner, a young woman was holding a tiny baby. The baby was wrapped in a pink blanket. The woman’s face was a mask of white-hot fear.

“She’s not breathing!” the woman shrieked, her voice cracking. “My baby! She’s not breathing!”

The big man with the “President” patch roared. His voice was like gravel and thunder. “Someone call 911! Again! Where’s the goddamn ambulance?”

“They said ten minutes, Frank! Ten minutes!” someone shouted back.

“That’s too long!” Frank bellowed, his eyes wild with panic. “My granddaughter needs help now!”

My heavy newspaper bag slipped from my numb shoulder and hit the tiled floor with a sickening THUD.

Everyone turned to me again. My mouth was dry. My blood felt like it had turned to ice water. I should have run. I was just the orphan boy. The ghost.

But my eyes weren’t on the bikers. They were on the baby.

Her tiny, perfect face was turning blue.

The word left my mouth before my brain gave it permission. My voice cracked, but it was clear.

“I know CPR.”

The entire diner, filled with the most terrifying men in the state, went dead silent.

The man, Frank, stared at me. His eyes, red-rimmed and frantic, bored into mine. For one second, I thought he was going to throw me through the front window.

Then, his face crumpled. “Help her,” he whispered. “Please.”

Part 2

The woman, the baby’s mother, let out a sob and placed the tiny child on a table that someone had frantically cleared, swiping aside coffee cups and plates.

My feet felt like lead, but they moved. One step. Then another. The entire world shrank to the size of that table. I could feel thirty pairs of eyes burning into my back. I could smell the stale beer on their vests and the sharp, metallic scent of my own fear.

Scene is safe. My mind was screaming. Is this scene safe? I was surrounded by a wall of leather and panic. It was the least safe I’d ever been.

Don’t think about them. Think about the book. Think about the class.

My hands were shaking. I clenched them, then unclenched them. Healing hands, the instructor had said. They didn’t feel like healing hands. They felt like two useless, trembling blocks of ice.

I looked at the baby. She was so, so small. Her face was a terrifying, waxy, blue-ish gray. Her little chest was perfectly still.

Check for breathing. Clear the airway.

I tilted her head back, ever so gently, my rough, newsprint-stained finger carefully sweeping her tiny mouth. Nothing. Just cold, still-lips.

Start compressions.

I couldn’t use my palm. She was too fragile. I’d crush her. I put two fingers, just my index and middle finger, on the center of her chest, right on her sternum.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

My mind was a screaming void, but a calm, steady voice took over. It was Mike, the paramedic from the class. Gentle, but firm, Brics. You’re pushing life back in. One-third the depth of the chest. Don’t stop.

I leaned down and placed my mouth over her tiny mouth and nose, giving a small, small puff of air. Just enough to make her chest rise. I tasted the salt of the mother’s tears.

I came back up. My heart was beating so hard I could feel it in my throat, a sick, heavy drumbeat. The diner was so quiet I could hear the tick-tock of the clock on the wall. It sounded like an explosion.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Another tiny breath.

“Come on, little one,” I whispered, the words lost in the silence. “Breathe. Please breathe.”

I looked at Frank. The “President.” The most terrifying man I’d ever seen. He was on his knees by the table, his head bowed, his huge, tattooed hands clasped together as if in prayer. Tears were cutting clean tracks through the grime on his face and disappearing into his gray beard.

“Please,” he rasped, his voice thick with a pain I knew too well. The pain of loss. The pain that lived in my pocket, in that folded-up photograph. “Please save my angel.”

Angel. That was her name.

A fresh wave of panic hit me. What if I failed? What if I broke her? What if these men, her family, watched me fail and then tore me apart? Dex’s face flashed in my mind. This was worse. This was a hundred times worse. Dex just wanted to hurt me. These men… they would end me.

Focus, Brics. Focus on Angel.

I looked back at her tiny, still face. Her eyelashes were like miniature brush strokes.

“Come on, Angel,” I said, my voice a little stronger this time. “Your family needs you. Your grandpa needs you.”

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Another breath.

I was in a tunnel. There was no diner. No bikers. No St. Martin’s. There was just me, this tiny, still child, and the rhythmic push of my fingers. The world was just the thump-thump-thump of my fingers and the sound of my own breath.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Another breath.

I was losing her. I knew I was. It wasn’t working. The blue wasn’t fading. It was getting deeper. A cold, black despair started to creep into my heart. I was going to fail. I was going to watch a baby die. I was the ghost boy, and I was going to fail, and I was going to die here, in this diner, smelling of bacon and fear.

One more time. One more cycle. I was crying. I didn’t realize it until a tear splashed on her still face.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

I leaned down, gave the breath, and as I pulled back…

Gasp.

It was the smallest sound in the world. A tiny, wet cough. A hitch in the air.

My head snapped up.

Her little chest… it moved. On its own.

Her face, as if a switch had been flipped, started to turn from blue to a blotchy, angry pink.

And then, the most beautiful, terrible, furious sound I have ever heard in my life. She started to cry. A thin, reedy wail that cut through the silence like a siren.

The diner exploded.

It wasn’t a cheer. It was a roar. It was a physical sound that hit me in the chest. Men were shouting, slamming their hands on tables, hugging each other. The woman—Angel’s mother—rushed forward and scooped her baby up, covering her in kisses and sobbing, “Oh my God, oh my God, thank you.”

I just stood there, my two fingers still raised, frozen in place. My hands were tingling. I suddenly felt dizzy, and the room tilted.

Frank, the President, got to his feet. He looked at me, and his face was… I have no words for it. It was like he was seeing a miracle. He took two steps and pulled me into a hug that felt like being hit by a truck. He smelled like leather, motor oil, and salt. He crushed me against his vest, and I could feel his body shaking with sobs.

“You saved her,” he choked into my hair. “You saved my granddaughter’s life.”

He pulled back, his huge hands on my shoulders, holding me at arm’s length. He just… stared at me.

“What’s your name, son?” he asked, his voice still thick.

“Brics,” I whispered. “Brics Miller.”

“Brics Miller,” he repeated, like he was engraving it on his brain. “I will never forget that name. Not as long as I live.”

Just then, the wail of sirens grew louder, and the paramedics rushed in, a wave of blue uniforms and equipment. They took Angel, and the diner cleared out a little as Frank and his family followed them.

Frank stopped at the door. He looked back at me, standing alone and trembling by the table. He pointed one, thick, tattooed finger at me.

“I owe you,” he said. And it didn’t sound like a promise. It sounded like a verdict. “I owe you everything.”

Then he was gone.

I walked back to St. Martin’s in a daze. I left my newspaper bag at the diner. I didn’t care. The world felt… different. The colors seemed brighter. The air felt cleaner. When I got back to the home, Dex was in the rec room. He saw me.

“Look who it is, ghost boy,” he started.

I just… looked at him. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t look away. I just held his gaze. My hands weren’t even shaking anymore. I had just stared down thirty Hells Angels and brought a baby back from the dead. Dex… Dex just seemed small.

He must have seen something new in my eyes, something that wasn’t there that morning. He faltered, his stupid insult dying on his lips. “Whatever,” he muttered, and turned away.

For the first time in my life, I wasn’t the one who looked away first.

Three days passed. It was the longest three days of my life.

I went to school. I did my homework. I ate my lumpy oatmeal alone. But something was different. The world hadn’t changed, but I had. I was waiting. The silence was louder than the bikers had been.

Frank’s words echoed in my head. I owe you. What did that mean? Was it a good thing? Or a bad thing? These were Hells Angels. Outlaws. The kind of people Mrs. Peterson warned us about.

Every time I heard a loud car or a motorcycle, my heart would leap into my throat. I became paranoid. I’d jump at every slammed door, every shout in the hallway. Were they coming back? Did I do something wrong? Maybe the baby… maybe she didn’t make it? Maybe I’d hurt her with the compressions? The manual said ribs could break. Maybe they were coming back to blame me?

I had nightmares. Not about Dex. About Frank. I’d dream of that diner, only this time, the baby wouldn’t wake up. I’d dream of Frank’s face, not crumpled in gratitude, but twisted in rage.

On the fourth day, Mrs. Peterson called me to her office. Her desk was neat, but her face was a mess of confusion.

“Brics,” she said, folding her hands. Her voice was strange, like she couldn’t decide if the news was good or bad. “There’s… been a call. About you.”

My stomach dropped. “Am I in trouble?”

“No,” she said slowly. “It was a man named Frank. From… from Joe’s Diner.” She looked at me over her glasses. “He said you saved his granddaughter’s life.”

I looked at my shoes. “I just did what they taught me in the CPR class.”

Mrs. Peterson smiled, a real, warm smile. “Well… he asked a lot of questions about you, Brics. Where you go to school. How long you’ve been here.” She paused. “He seemed very… interested in you.”

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I sat by the window, watching the rain, wondering about Angel. Was she okay? Was she sleeping in a real crib, in a real home, with people who loved her so much they’d tear the world apart for her?

The next morning was Saturday again.

I woke up, got dressed, and headed out for my paper route. Or at least, I tried to.

When I stepped into the main hall, it was chaos. All the other boys—even Dex—were crowded around the front windows, their faces pressed to the glass.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Look,” one of the younger boys whispered, his voice full of awe.

I pushed through the crowd to see. And my blood ran cold.

The driveway of St. Martin’s Home for Boys… it wasn’t a driveway anymore. It was a sea of chrome and steel.

Motorcycles. Hundreds of them. They lined the entire drive, spilled out onto the street, and blocked the road in both directions. And standing next to them, silent as statues, were men and women in leather vests.

They weren’t moving. They weren’t talking. They were just… standing. Staring at the front door.

“What are all those bikers doing here?” a boy whispered.

“I bet they’re gonna burn the place down,” another said.

“They’re waiting for someone,” Dex said, and for the first time, I heard real fear in his voice. He looked at me, his eyes wide. “They’re waiting for you.”

Mr. Davis, the head of St. Martin’s, burst into the hall. He was a stern man I usually avoided. His face was pale, and his hands were shaking.

“Brics Miller!” he called out, his voice cracking. “Brics Miller, these… these people… they’re asking for you.”

A cold, heavy dread filled my stomach. This is it. I did something wrong. The baby died. They’re here to finish me. I was just the stupid orphan boy who tried to play hero.

I walked to the front door on legs that felt like jelly. Mr. Davis put a hand on my shoulder, maybe to steady me, or maybe to steady himself. “Do you know these people, Brics?”

I nodded, unable to speak. “I… I met one of them. His name is Frank.”

I pushed open the heavy oak door. The cool morning air hit my face. I counted the seven steps down to the driveway. Each one felt like a mile.

Frank stood at the bottom of the steps. He looked even bigger in the daylight. Behind him, rows and rows and rows of bikers. I tried to count. Fifty. A hundred. More. So many more. (I found out later it was 793. They’d called in chapters from three states.)

Frank walked up to meet me. His boots clicked on the pavement. He stopped one step below me, so we were almost eye-to-eye.

“Brics Miller,” he said. His voice was so deep it vibrated in my chest.

“Yes, sir,” I squeaked.

“My granddaughter, Angel,” he said, and his voice cracked. “She’s home. She’s healthy. She’s… alive.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “Because of you.”

I just nodded, still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“I asked around about you, son,” Frank said, his eyes scanning my face. “I know you’ve been here a long time. I know you’ve been alone.”

Then Frank did something I’ll never forget. He reached up, undid his own leather vest—the one that said “President”—and he took it off.

He turned it around. On the back were the Hells Angels patches. And sewn just below the main patch, fresh and new, was a smaller one. It just said: “Honorary Member.”

He held the vest out to me. It was heavy.

“This,” he said, his voice thick, “is for you.”

I stared at it, speechless. I looked up from the vest to his face, and then to the hundreds of bikers watching us.

Frank raised his hand.

And then, as one, 793 bikers, 793 of the most feared men and women in the country, all shouted three words at me. Three words I’d never heard directed at me in my entire life. Three words that shattered the lonely, silent world I had lived in.

“YOU ARE FAMILY!”

I stood frozen, the heavy vest in my hands. The sound of their voices rolled over me, a physical wave. Behind me, I could hear the other boys, and even Mr. Davis, gasping.

“I… I don’t understand,” I stammered.

Frank put a hand on my shoulder, his grip like warm steel. “You’re one of us now, son. Anyone who saves an angel… is family to the Angels.”

A woman stepped forward. It was Angel’s mother. Her eyes were red, but she was smiling. In her arms, wrapped in a pink blanket, was Angel.

“Would you like to hold her?” she asked.

I nodded, my throat too tight to speak. I awkwardly held out my arms, and she placed the warm, solid weight of her daughter into them.

Angel was… perfect. Her eyes were open, bright and curious, and she was looking right at me. She yawned, and her tiny hand wrapped around my finger and held on tight.

“She knows you,” the mother said softly, tears running down her cheeks. “She remembers.”

Frank handed me a small, square card. “This is my auto shop,” he said. “We need a new kid to help out after school. Sweeping up, learning the tools. Good pay. If you want it… the job’s yours.”

I couldn’t speak. I just nodded, clutching the card like it was gold.

Then he handed me something else. A brand-new cell phone, still in the box. “This is yours, too,” he said. “All our numbers are in it. Day or night. You need anything… you call. Someone will always answer.”

I’d never had a phone. I’d never had anyone to call.

“And one more thing,” Frank said, his voice getting rough again. “My daughter—Angel’s mom—makes dinner every Sunday. Six o’clock sharp. You have a place at our table. Always.”

A family dinner. A place that was mine.

That afternoon, Frank took me back to Joe’s Diner. This time, I didn’t scurry past. I walked in with him. The entire diner stood up and clapped. They gave me a burger, fries, and a chocolate shake. It was the best meal of my life. Bikers came by, one by one, shaking my hand, patting my back, telling me their names. They didn’t see a “ghost boy” or “orphan scum.” They saw… me.

When the sun started to set, Frank looked at me. “Ready to head back, Brics?”

I nodded, though I never wanted the day to end.

“How ’bout a ride?” he said, grinning and pointing to his motorcycle.

He handed me a helmet. I climbed on the back. He kicked the engine to life, and it roared, vibrating through my entire body. As we pulled away from the diner, the other bikers started their engines, too.

The sound of 793 motorcycles starting at once wasn’t a sound. It was thunder. It was an earthquake. It was the sound of a new life starting.

We rode out of town, a long, winding parade of steel and leather, with me in the middle. The wind rushed past my face, whipping the tears from my eyes. But for the first time, they weren’t tears of sadness or fear.

I thought about the photo under my pillow. My parents. They were gone. That pain would never leave. But as I held on tight to Frank, the setting sun painting the sky orange and pink, I realized something.

Family isn’t always the one you’re born into.

Sometimes, family is the one that finds you. The one that roars into your life on 793 motorcycles when you least expect it, and tells the whole world that you, the boy nobody saw, belong.

Part 3

The ride back to St. Martin’s was the quietest thunder I’d ever known. Frank pulled up to the front steps, and the entire procession of 792 other bikes stopped behind him, a massive, silent, leather-clad army. They didn’t turn off their engines. The air vibrated, a low, protective growl.

I climbed off, my legs shaking. I handed the helmet back to Frank. He just looked at me.

“Monday,” he said. “Four o’clock. My shop. Don’t be late.” It wasn’t a question.

“I’ll be there,” I said.

He nodded, put his helmet on, and gave a single, sharp hand signal. In perfect, earth-shaking unison, the engines revved, and they were gone. They peeled off, two by two, a river of steel and taillights, until the driveway was empty again.

The silence they left behind was deafening.

I walked back inside, holding the vest, the phone, and the business card. The main hall was empty, but I could feel them. Eyes. Watching me from doorways and from the top of the stairs. Dex was standing at the end of the hall, his arms crossed. He just stared. I walked right past him, went into my room, and shut the door.

I put the vest on my desk. It was heavy. I put the phone on my desk. It was heavy, too. I sat on my cot and just… breathed.

The next day was Sunday. I woke up, and for the first time, I didn’t feel that cold stone of dread in my gut. I felt… something else. Anticipation.

The day dragged. I did my homework. I read the first-aid manual again. At 5:30 PM, I put on my one clean shirt and my windbreaker. I went downstairs.

A black, clean pickup truck was idling out front. Frank was in the driver’s seat. I got in.

“Buckle up, kid,” he said.

We drove to a part of town I’d never seen, with small, neat houses with front yards. He pulled into a driveway. Before I could even open my door, the front door of the house burst open, and Angel’s mother—her name was Sarah—came out, smiling.

“You’re here!” she said, pulling me into a hug.

The house was… loud. Not like St. Martin’s, which was full of angry, hollow noise. This was loud with life. Music was playing. People were laughing. The kitchen smelled like garlic and roasted chicken. Bikers and their families were everywhere, filling the living room, spilling out onto the back deck.

“Brics!” Frank’s voice boomed. “Grab a plate. You’re too skinny.”

I sat at a long dining table, crammed between a guy with a skull tattoo on his head and a woman who introduced herself as “Reaper’s Mom.” They passed me platters of food—mashed potatoes, chicken, green beans, salad. My plate was piled higher than my head.

“So, you’re the kid,” the skull-tattoo guy said. His name was ‘Sledge’. “Heard you got hands of gold.”

“I… I just did what I was taught,” I stammered.

Sledge laughed, a deep, rumbling sound. “That’s what they all say.” He clapped me on the back, and I nearly face-planted into my potatoes. “Eat up. You’re family. Family eats.”

In the corner of the living room, Angel was in a bassinet, sleeping. Sarah saw me looking.

“Go on,” she whispered.

I walked over. She was so pink. So perfect. Her little chest rose and fell, steady and strong. I just watched her breathe. I stood there for I don’t know how long, just watching a baby breathe.

“Brics.”

I turned. It was Frank. He was holding two bottles of soda. He handed me one.

“She’s a good sleeper,” he said, staring down at his granddaughter.

“She’s… perfect,” I said.

“Yeah.” He was quiet for a long time. “You did a good thing, son. A thing I can never repay.”

“You don’t have to,” I said. “I’m just… I’m glad I was there.”

“Me too.” He cleared his throat, his voice getting that gravelly sound again. “So. Monday. The shop. You ever work on an engine?”

“No, sir. I’ve only ever delivered papers.”

Frank grinned. “Good. Then you ain’t got no bad habits to break. You’ll start by sweeping. Everyone starts by sweeping.”

Monday was my first day. I walked the two miles from school to “Frank’s Full-Service Auto.” It was a big, greasy garage with three bays.

“You’re late,” Frank barked, as I walked in at 3:58 PM.

“You said four,” I said, confused.

“If you’re on time, you’re late,” he said, but I saw the corner of his mouth twitch. “Broom’s in the corner. Get to it. This floor ain’t gonna clean itself.”

And so, I swept. I swept up metal shavings, dirt, and puddles of oil. I organized tools I didn’t know the names of. I took out mountains of greasy trash. It was the hardest, dirtiest work I’d ever done. And it was the best.

The other mechanics, big, tattooed guys named ‘Grease’ and ‘Tiny’ (a different Tiny, who was somehow even bigger), grunted at me at first. But they also showed me things. How to change oil. How to check tire pressure. How to use a socket wrench.

At the end of the week, Frank pulled me into his tiny, cluttered office. He handed me an envelope.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“It’s called a paycheck, son. Don’t spend it all in one place.”

I opened it. It was more money than I’d saved in six months of delivering papers. I just stared at it.

“Go on,” Frank said, turning back to his paperwork. “Get out of here. And don’t be late on Monday. 3:45.”

I started saving. Not just for a trash bag and a bus ticket out of town. I was saving for a deposit on an apartment. For a real life.

Weeks turned into months. I still lived at St. Martin’s, but it felt… temporary. It was just a place I slept. My life was at the shop. My life was at Sunday dinners.

I got good at the job. I could time a belt, change a set of plugs, and rotate tires like a pro. Frank started letting me work on the bikes.

One afternoon, I was cleaning a carburetor, my hands black with grease, when Frank walked over.

“You’re 18 in two months,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes, sir.” My stomach tightened. The old fear. Aging out.

“Got a plan?”

“I’m… I’m saving up. For a room. Downtown, maybe.”

Frank grunted. “A room. Kid, you’re 17. You shouldn’t be living in ‘a room.’ You should be… hell, I don’t know. Being a kid.” He scrubbed his face with a greasy rag. “Me and Sarah, we were talkin’. That back room at the house… it’s just full of junk. Be a shame to let it go to waste.”

I stopped working. I just stared at him. “What… what are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” Frank said, looking annoyed, “that it’s gonna take a hell of a long time to clean it out. Could use an extra set of hands. And it’s got its own bathroom. Rent’s cheap. One Sunday dinner a week. Non-negotiable.”

I couldn’t breathe. My eyes were burning, and I blinked, fast.

“You… you mean…?”

“Don’t make me say it again, kid,” Frank growled. “Now, are you gonna finish that carb or just stare at it?”

I finished the carb, but my hands were shaking so hard I could barely hold the tools.

That night, back at St. Martin’s, I sat on my cot. I looked at the peeling paint, at the scarred desk. I reached under my pillow and pulled out the old, creased photo of my parents.

I hadn’t looked at it in a while.

The next Sunday, I brought it with me to dinner. After we ate, and while Sarah was rocking Angel, I found Frank on the back porch.

“Frank?”

“Yeah, kid?”

My heart was hammering. I held out the photo. “I… I wanted to show you something. This is… they were my parents.”

Frank took the photo gently. His big, calloused thumb, stained with permanent grease, was careful not to touch their faces. He held it up to the porch light.

“They’re… they’re beautiful, Brics.”

“I don’t remember them,” I whispered. “This… this is all I have.”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice thick. He handed the photo back to me. “Well. They woulda been proud of you, son. Real proud.”

He put his heavy arm around my shoulder, and we just stood there, listening to the sound of our family laughing inside.

I still have that photo. It’s not under my pillow anymore. It’s in a frame, on a real wooden desk, in my own room. Right next to a picture of me, in a cap and gown, at my high school graduation. Frank and Sarah are on one side of me. Sledge and Grease are on the other. And in my arms, I’m holding Angel, who’s four years old and laughing her head off.

My name is Brics Miller. I’m not a ghost. And I am not, and have never been, alone