Raff’s head was just fine, and the doctors assure him that the rest of his body probably would be, as well.

Of course Raff didn’t have to testify in Trick Daniels’ trial back in Manhattan. Chris contacted the New York District Attorney and explained that their star witness was wrapped in plaster and attached to IVs. They’d just have to nail the bastard without Raff’s help.

Once he was more clearheaded, Raff was discouraged about the state of affairs. Before his accident, he felt as though the one thing that could make all the hassle—the constant presence of the press, the inconvenience to his family, friends and coworkers—worth it was to help put Trick behind bars. Now he didn’t even get to do that. The jury was deliberating now and had been for three days. It was in their hands.

His best friend’s presence softened that blow a bit. Sam rented a condo at Stellar Landing and stayed for a week, spending each day with Raff at the hospital before heading back to the building. Sam’s companionship helped pass the time; even the nurses loved him.

Sam claimed that he hadn’t been on a vacation by himself in years, and that he deserved it. As it turned out, however, Sam hated Alaska and thought that the people who lived in Stellar Landing were insane to voluntarily “live in a goddamn sardine can,” as he put it. Aaron took him out in his Jeep, hoping that some of the beautiful natural sights would win him over, but Sam wasn’t much of an outdoorsman. He did make some pals in the building though, and had dinner a few times with his new friends at the café or played cards and had a drink at James’s condo. As soon as he knew that his buddy was being released though, Sam booked his flight home. He said he missed civilization, but Raff knew he missed his wife and kids.

Raff was excited and nervous to be headed home. He missed Elizabeth terribly. But the press was still lying in wait outside the hospital and Stellar Landing, hungry like wolves, ready to chase him down.

“You have to get into the chair,” Chris said, for the third time. “I know you can walk. You know you can walk. But it’s hospital policy. They will not let you walk out of here.”

“I’m so tired of sitting and lying down. I need to stretch these legs.”

“Don’t make me reach over there and smack you,” Sam said. “Stop whining and sit in the damn chair.”

Raff looked ashamed and folded himself down into the wheelchair.

He was still wearing the trunk and arm cast, and would be for several more weeks, but the road rash on his legs was healing well. There was no brain damage at all, miraculously. When he saw photos of his bike, twisted and unrecognizable, he cringed knowing he got lucky.

As soon as they stepped out into the sunshine, cacophony broke out. But it wasn’t what Raff expected. He thought it would be reporters rudely clamoring for a statement.

Instead, the sound of motorcycles, at least twenty of them, filled the air, that familiar two-piston/one-pin pop-pop . . . pop-pop . . . pop-pop of Harley Davidsons. Raff looked around at all the men and women on their bikes, and he didn’t recognize any of them. He didn’t even belong to a club in Alaska!

Who are these guys?

He looked at Chris, who just shrugged.

Sam rolled up next to them. “I knew you needed a safe way to get home, so I called your friend Buzz. He made some calls and got in touch with a club up here. Meet your escorts. Pretty chill dudes.”

The bikes had temporarily blocked off the small hospital parking lot, keeping the press from swarming around Raff and Chris, so that they could get to their car. Once buckled in, bikes led the way to Stellar Landing, riding two by two in front and behind, for miles. All of the riders wore black jackets, black helmets and mirrored aviator sunglasses, looking like a stern military. The press couldn’t even be seen from the center of the motorcade. It was truly impressive.

“I’ve done this before,” Raff said, looking out the front and back windows from his spot in the backseat. “It takes some work. Thank you, Sam.”

Sam turned to his friend from the front. “Friends look out for each other, man.”

The Stellar Landing parking lot looked like a carnival. There was the human fence, once again fronted by Gladys, and behind them, tied to residents’ antennas, trees and stuck to stakes in the ground, were a myriad of colorful balloons. The residents looked surprised and delighted by the motorcycle motorcade, and parted to let the bikes and Chris’s car into the lot.

As it turned out, the press didn’t even bother following them all the way from the hospital. The bikers scared them off several miles back.

As the bikers turned off their machines and pulled off their helmets, the stony looks turned into smiling faces. Sam rolled around the lot, thanking some of the bikers, and Gladys skipped around, introducing herself and inviting them to come inside.

Raff wanted to thank the riders himself, but he was suddenly overwhelmed with emotion.

“You okay?” Chris sensed something was wrong, and ushered him inside so they could speak quietly. Just inside the lobby doors were more balloons and a huge Welcome Home banner, along with more of the residents, smiling and waving. “Wow. Okay. In here, Raff.”

Chris pulled him into the chapel; a small, peaceful room that was always open but rarely occupied except on Sunday mornings.

Raff sat heavily in the wooden pew.

“Too much? I knew they were going to do something . . . it was kind of hard to say no.”

“It’s not the party. That’s nice, actually. I wouldn’t mind some non-hospital food for a change.” Raff sighed. “I just don’t deserve this.”

Chris was confused. “What does that mean?”

“I messed up. I tried to escape from the silver hatchback and I wrecked. And before that, I was the one that attracted the press. Now Sam is up here, and he got these other people involved, and I feel . . . responsible.”

“Ohhh, okay. I see what Sam was talking about now.”

It was Raff’s turned to look confused. “What?”

“He mentioned that you have a tendency to feel sorry for yourself.”

“I’m not—wait—what?”

Chris stood. “I’m heading out to the party that your friends and neighbors planned for you. They worked for two days to plan this. And I don’t even know how long it took Sam to get the motorcycle club. If you think they were motivated by anything other than kindness and concern, then you’re not giving them very much credit. Come on out when you’re ready.” Chris turned and walked out.

It was like a slap in the face—a welcome, refreshing slap in the face.

“Wait, wait!” Raff called. He was glad that Chris stopped and turned, because he was still moving a bit slowly. He pulled Chris in for a hug. “Thank you. I needed that.”

Chris pulled back and smiled. “You’re welcome. Come on. Your daughter is waiting for you.”

Sure enough, Elizabeth’s little bell-like voice could be heard calling for him. “Papa? Papa? Gramma, where Papa?”

She raced for him when she saw him, and would have tackled his legs had Chris not swooped down to grab her first, lifting her to her alpha-father’s face for a smooch. “Gotta be gentle with Papa for now, Bizzy,” Chris explained, and Elizabeth leaned down and gently kissed her father’s cast.

The waiting group burst into coos at her adorable actions.

Raff was given a comfortable seat, and his friends and neighbors welcomed him home in turn. Sam brought over some of the bikers to meet him and they were a friendly bunch. The leader of the group, who introduced himself as Cranky Craig, said he and Buzz went way back, and that any friend of Buzz’s was a friend of his. They were a clean and sober group, Cranky Craig told Raff, who made it their mission to help the community however they could. They talked bike for a little while, and Craig promised to invite Raff for a ride when he was feeling better.

It was interesting to see the mostly typical suburbanites that lived and vacationed in Stellar—professionals, parents, retirees and even the mayor—meeting and interacting with the bikers, who were wearing all-black leathers and shirts with rock bands or rude sayings. At first, there was a split down the room: the Stellarites and the bikers on separate sides of the room. It was Chris and Gladys who started to encourage them to mingle. Chris met a biker who enjoyed cooking and then he called Holly over to meet her. Gladys discovered that one of the motorcycle enthusiasts collected rare books, so she flagged down Celia the librarian to discuss her own collection. Soon bikers were giving the resident kids piggy-back rides, and their parents were writing down their emails to keep in touch with their new friends.

“Look at all this,” Sam said. He was taking a break from his own socializing to eat a piece of Gladys’s homemade cherry-apple pie. “Look at what came out of your accident. New friends, good pie.”

Raff gave him a sidelong look. “I think you’re polishing the turd a bit, friend.” There was no way Raff was going to claim this as a victory, no matter how nice it was.

Sam finished another bite and then turned to his friend. “Sometimes you surprise me, Raff.”

It was unusual to hear Sam speaking so seriously. He was known as a straight shooter, of course, but there was usually a hefty dose of humor or sarcasm in his voice.

“What do you mean?”

“You are someone who has chosen to live on the very edge of danger. And please take that as a sincere compliment. You ride a Harley. You work with addicts. You live in Brooklyn during most of the year, and the fucking wilderness of Alaska during the summers. You’ve been in more severe motorcycle accidents than anyone I’ve ever met, and only one of them was alcohol-influenced.”

“Okay?” Raff wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that, living on the very edge of danger, but he respected Sam too much to argue.

“If you’re going to choose to live differently, you have to own it. Revel in it. Embrace the positive impact that you have on others. Otherwise, you’re just a negative weirdo.”

Sam gave him a wink and rolled off to get another piece of pie.

By himself for just a moment, Raff considered his friend’s incongruous words. While no one could deny that he had caused his family and neighbors some anxiety and inconvenience, they all did seem to be enjoying themselves. No one was focused on Raff’s mistakes. No one was angry that his past had interrupted on their present. They just wanted to do something nice for their friend. Whether or not that meant that Raff had made a positive impact on any of them, he couldn’t say, but he decided to follow their example and stop focusing on his mistakes. At least for the night. He got up, stretched his legs, and walked around, thanking the people who made it all possible.

It was getting late, and Raff was feeling the effects of his last pain pill wearing off. Chris saw him and said it was time to go.

As a litigator, Chris was an excellent public speaker, and Raff was grateful when he saw his husband tap a spoon against a glass so that Raff didn’t have to do it. Chris briefly thanked everyone for their help—the bikers for the motorcade, the Stellar residents for the human fence and the party, and everyone for their friendship.

Raff could barely manage to rasp out a “Hear, hear,” and then they headed to the elevator, with their little girl in her omega-dad’s arms.