I walked into the living room. It was sparse. A TV I found on the curb, a couch covered in a blanket to hide the stains, and a small shrine in the corner. Sarah’s photo. She was smiling, that bright, infectious smile that used to make even my hardest club brothers soften up. Next to her photo was a stack of envelopes. Final Notice. Past Due. Urgent.

The medical bills. They were a tide that never stopped rising.

I turned away and looked at my “cut”—the leather vest hanging on the back of the dining chair. The patches on the back—the “Iron Reapers MC”—were faded from sun and rain. People saw that vest and saw a criminal, a thug, a menace to society. They saw the “1%” diamond patch and crossed the street. They didn’t know that the man inside the vest was currently terrified of a twelve-year-old girl’s hair appointment.

“Dad?”

The voice was small, barely a whisper.

I turned. Lily was standing in the hallway. She was wearing her oversized pajamas, the ones with the cartoon cats. She looked so small. The chemo had ravaged her. It had taken the fat from her cheeks, the color from her skin, and the strength from her legs. She looked like a porcelain doll that had been dropped and glued back together.