Six bikers have been sleeping in my driveway for nine nights now, and I still don’t know all their names.
I’m 71. My husband Earl passed three winters ago. I live alone at the end of a gravel road outside Cullman, Alabama, and until last spring, I never locked my back door.
Then a young man came through it at two in the morning.
He took Earl’s watch, my wedding ring, and $340 from the coffee can. When I tried to stop him, he shoved me into the kitchen counter. I broke my wrist and two ribs and lay on that linoleum until sunrise before I could reach the phone.
They caught him a week later. He got eighteen months.
He served eleven.
Nobody told me he was out. I found out from the cashier at the Piggly Wiggly, who leaned over the counter and whispered it like a death notice.
