“Excuse me! What the hell do you think you’re doing here?”
The men stopped.
The skinny one with the gray ponytail stepped toward me and placed a hand against my chest. He didn’t shove me. He didn’t threaten me. He simply held me back with a quiet firmness that somehow felt more intimidating than a punch.
“Son,” he said, “you really don’t want to do this today.”
I tried to push past him.
Hospital security appeared around the corner, and for one hopeful second, I thought someone was finally going to explain why these strangers had been allowed anywhere near my dead sister’s child.
Instead, the oldest biker handed the guard a document.
The guard read it, looked at me, and stepped against the wall.
Ten minutes later, the nursery doors opened.
The biggest biker came out carrying the pink car seat. Beside him walked the old man, now holding my newborn niece against his leather vest.
