They were about to mail a fallen Marine’s ashes. No service, no family, no “we’ll be there.” Just a cardboard box on the counter, a printed tracking label, and a clerk pulling tape like it was any other shipment. The funeral director stood nearby with a file in his hand and said, “We waited months.
Then the doorbell chimed. Heavy boots crossed the tile. A group of men and women walked in wearing worn biker vests with patches on their backs, faces set hard, like they’d come to pick up someone who belonged to them.
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