One girl said to the biker, “Do you want to be my dad? My dad is in jail for killing my mom. My grandmother says I need a new one. Do you want to be my dad?”

I was pumping gas into my Harley on the Chevron on Route 66 when a little blonde thing, no more than five years old, approached me. Fearless.

Just those big green eyes staring at me like I could be the answer to their problems.

His grandmother was inside paying, she hadn’t noticed that the boy had approached the leather-clad giant with skull tattoos on his arms.

I’m Vincent “Reaper” Torres, I’m 64 years old and I’ve been touring with the Desert Wolves MC for thirty-eight years.

1.93 m, 127 kg, beard to his chest and enough ink to cover a small building. Children often run away from me. She showed me her stuffed bunny.

“This is Mr. Hoppy,” he said. He doesn’t have a dad either.

Before I could answer, an old woman ran out of the station, pale with terror. “Lily! LILY! Stay away from that man!”

But Lily didn’t move. He grabbed my vest with his free hand, his little fingers clinging to the leather. “I want this one, grandma. He seems lonely, just like me.”

Grandma stopped in her tracks as Lily clung to me, not threatened but hopeful.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, trying to pull Lily’s fingers away from my vest. “He doesn’t understand it. His father… his mother… it has been a very hard year.”

“He killed Mom,” Lily said matter-of-factly.

With a knife. There was a lot of blood. But Mommy’s in heaven now, and Daddy’s in a terrible place, and Grandma cries all the time, and I just want a Daddy who won’t hurt anybody.

Grandma’s name was Helen Patterson. She was sixty-seven years old, a retired teacher, and suddenly raising her granddaughter after her son murdered her daughter-in-law in a fit of rage brought on by methamphetamine.

She looked exhausted, defeated, as if she had aged twenty years in the last twelve months.

“Lily, honey, we can’t ask strangers…

“It’s not unusual,” Lily interrupted. She has beautiful eyes. Sad eyes like Mr. Hoppy’s.

I knelt at Lily’s height, my knees creaking. “Hello, little one. I’m sure your grandmother takes good care of you.”

“He tries,” Lily said earnestly. But it is greater. He doesn’t know how to play. And he doesn’t know anything about dads. He only knows about grandmothers.

Helen began to cry. Right there in the parking lot of the gas station, this formal-looking old lady collapsed.

“I’m failing him,” he sobbed.

I don’t know how to explain to him why his father did what he did. I don’t know how to be a father and a grandfather at the same time.

I am 67 years old. He should be retired, not start from scratch with a traumatized five-year-old.

“Grandma needs a nap,” Lily said to me confidentially. Now he always needs naps.

I looked at this little girl who had witnessed a horror that no child should ever see, then at the grandmother who was drowning in a situation she never asked for.

I made a decision that would change our lives.

“What do you think of this?” I said to Lily. “I can’t be your dad, but maybe I could be your friend? Is that okay with you?”

Lily seriously considered it. “Do your friends teach you how to ride a motorcycle?”

“When you’re older, maybe.”

“Do friends come to tea parties?”

“If they invite you.”

“Do friends protect you from bad people?”

My throat got a lump. “Yes. Friends do.”

“All right,” Lily decided. “You can be my friend. My name is Lily Anne Patterson. I’m five and three-quarters years old. What’s your name?

“Vicente.”

“It’s very difficult. I’ll call you Mr. V.”

Helen looked at me with a mixture of fear and desperate hope. “Lord, I… couldn’t impose…”

I got up, pulled out my wallet and gave him a card. “I have a motorcycle shop two blocks from here. Desert Wolves Auto and Cycle. If you ever need anything — a babysitter, someone to fix your car, or just someone to talk to who isn’t five years old — give me a call.”

“Why would you do that?”

I looked at Lily, who was having Mr. Hoppy greet me.

Because I had a daughter. She would be in her thirties if the drunk driver hadn’t run her and my wife over twenty-two years ago. And because no one should have to raise a traumatized child alone.

Helen called three days later. Not to ask for help; she was too proud for that. But Lily had been asking about “Mr. V” nonstop, and if they would mind stopping by the store.

When they arrived, the entire Desert Wolves biker group was there for our weekly meeting. Fifteen bikers, all looking like they had come out of a nightmare. Lily walked in holding Helen’s hand, saw us all, and her face lit up like Christmas.

Grandmother! Mr. V has a LOT of friends!

He walked fearlessly through the group, introducing Mr. Hoppy to each biker. These men—ex-military, ex-convicts, guys who had seen the worst of humanity—solemnly shook the stuffed bunny’s paw and introduced themselves.

“This is perfect,” Lily announced. “I have a lot of parents now.

“Lily, they’re not,” Helen began.

“We could be uncles,” suggested Tank, a 136-kilogram former Marine. “Every kid needs uncles.”

“Biker guys!” screamed Lily.

That’s how MC group Desert Wolves became the unofficial extended family of a little girl whose world had been shattered.

The story slowly unfolded over the next few months. Lily’s father, Brad Patterson, had been a promising young man until meth caught up with him. His mother, Sarah, had tried to quit several times, but he always found them. The night he killed her, Lily had hidden in the closet where her mother had told her to go. She had heard it all. She had seen the aftermath when she finally came out.

The child therapist said Lily was coping great, but she had attachment issues. She was desperately looking for a father figure to replace the one who had so radically betrayed her trust.

“He clings to men who seem strong but confident,” the therapist explained to Helen and me during one session. “Mr. Torres represents protection without threat. In fact, he’s quite healthy, if unconventional.”

Unconventional. That was the word for a five-year-old girl who spent her afternoons in a motorcycle workshop, doing her homework on a workbench while motorcyclists fixed cars around her.

But it worked. Lily flourished in our presence. She learned the ABCs from Tank, who traced letters on oil stains. She learned math from Crow, who counted nuts with her. She learned Spanish from me, learning words as she talked to customers.

Եվ կամաց-կամաց ծաղկեց նաեւ Հելենը։ Հոգնած տատիկը գտավ աջակցություն, որը երբեք չէր սպասում։ Երբ նրան ընդմիջում էր պետք, մեզանից մեկը հոգ էր տանում Լիլիի մասին։ Երբ նրա մեքենան փչացավ, մենք անվճար վերանորոգեցինք այն։ Երբ նա չգիտեր, թե ինչպես բացատրել բանտը հինգ տարեկան երեխային, մենք օգնեցինք նրան։

«Լիլի»,- ասացի ես նրան մի օր, երբ նա հարցրեց ինձ, թե ինչու հայրը չի կարողանում տուն վերադառնալ։ «Երբեմն մարդիկ սխալ ընտրություններ են կատարում, որոնք ցավ են պատճառում ուրիշներին։ Երբ դա տեղի է ունենում, նրանք պետք է գնան ինչ-որ տեղ՝ խորհելու իրենց արածի մասին»։

«Ընդմիշտ»։

«Երկար ժամանակ»։

«Ներողություն խնդրո՞ւմ եք»։

«Չգիտեմ, փոքրիկ»։

«Եթե նա ներում է խնդրում, ես պետք է ներեմ նրան»։

«Ոչ։ Դուք երբեք չպետք է ներեք մեկին, ով ձեզ այդքան ցավ է պատճառել։

Վատ չէ. Որովհետեւ պարոն Հոփին շատ բարկացած է նրա վրա։

Բենզալցակայանում առաջին հանդիպումից վեց ամիս անց Հելենը սրտի կաթված ստացավ։ Դա լուրջ չէր, բայց բավականաչափ լուրջ էր, որ նա մեկ շաբաթով հիվանդանոց տեղափոխվեր։ Մանկական ծառայությունները միջամտեցին՝ ցանկանալով Լիլիին տեղավորել խնամակալության տակ։

Այդ ժամանակ Անապատային գայլերը հայտնվեցին այնպես, որ զարմացրեց բոլորին, այդ թվում՝ մեզ։

«Ես կվերցնեմ նրան», – ասացի ես շտապ դատավարության ժամանակ։

«Պարոն, դուք ազգականներ չեք», – ասաց սոցիալական աշխատողը։

«Նրանք նույնպես որդեգրող ծնողներ չեն»։

«Դուք մոտոցիկլետների ակումբի անդամ եք».

Ես բիզնեսի սեփականատեր եմ, վետերան եւ մեկը, ում վստահում է այս փոքրիկ աղջիկը։ Արդեն վեց ամիս է, ինչ օգնում եմ նրան հոգ տանել նրա մասին։

«Շատ կեղտոտ է…»

«Ահա թե ինչ է նշանակում տեսնել, թե ինչպես է հայրը սպանում մորը։ Այստեղ այլեւս նորմալ չէ»։

Դատավորը՝ Պատրիսիա Հենդրիկս անունով խստապահանջ կինը, նայեց Լիլիին։ «Լիլի, ճանաչո՞ւմ ես այդ մարդուն»։

«Դա պարոն Վ-ն է»։ Լիլին ուրախությամբ ասաց. «Նա ինձ սովորեցնում է մոտոցիկլետների մասին, պատրաստում է լավագույն աղացած պանրի սենդվիչը, տարբեր ձայներով պատմություններ է կարդում պարոն Հոփպիին եւ երբեք չի գոռում, նույնիսկ երբ ես յուղ եմ թափում ամբողջ խանութում։

Ձեզ ապահով զգո՞ւմ եք դրանում։

Ամենաանվտանգը։ Նա մեծ է եւ վախեցնում է վատ մարդկանց, բայց բարի է լավ մարդկանց հանդեպ։ Եվ նա շատ ընկերներ ունի, որոնք նույնն են։

Դատավոր Հենդրիկսը նայեց սոցիալական աշխատողի զեկույցին, հետո ինձ, ապա Լիլիին, որը բռնում էր պարոն Հոփպիին եւ հույս ուներ։

Պարոն Տորեսին ժամանակավոր խնամակալություն է տրվում՝ մինչեւ տիկին Պատերսոնի ապաքինումը եւ հետագա գնահատումը։

Լիլին բարձրացրած ձեռքերը վազեց դեպի ինձ։ Ես վերցրի նրան, եւ նա շշնջաց ականջիս.

«Դա նշանակում է, որ ես քո խնամակալն եմ»։

«Նա նման է հոր, բայց ավելի սառը անունով»։

Հելենը ապաքինվեց, բայց նա ավելի թույլ էր։ Անցած տարվա սթրեսը վնաս էր հասցրել նրան։ Նա դեռ կարող էր ամեն օր հոգ տանել Լիլիի մասին, բայց օգնության կարիք ուներ։ Այսպիսով, մենք համաձայնության եկանք։ Լիլին շաբաթվա ընթացքում մնում էր Հելենի հետ, հանգստյան օրերին՝ ինձ հետ, իսկ կեսօրն անցկացնում էր խանութում, որտեղ միշտ ինչ-որ մեկը հոգ էր տանում նրա մասին։

Դպրոցի մյուս երեխաները չգիտեին, թե ինչ անել Լիլի Պատերսոնի հետ, աղջիկը, որին ամեն օր մեկ այլ հեծանվորդ էր թողնում։ Բայց Լիլին չէր հետաքրքրում։ Նա քաղաքի ամենազվարճալի տղաներն ուներ, եւ նա գիտեր դա։

«Իմ քեռի Թանկը կարող է բարձրացնել մի ամբողջ մոտոցիկլետ»,- պարծենում էր նա։ «Իմ քեռի Կուերվոն մեջքին թռչուն է դաջել։ Իմ պարոն V-ն խոսում է երեք լեզվով եւ եղել է յոթ երկրներում»։

PTA-ի հանդիպումները հետաքրքիր էին։ Ես ու Հելենը գալիս էինք միասին՝ ավագ տատիկը եւ հսկա հեծանվորդը, եւ մարդիկ չգիտեին՝ սարսափել, թե հուզվել։

But everything changed the day Brad Patterson was released.

He had been given fifteen years, but he was released in three years for good behavior and overcrowding. No one notified us of her release until she showed up at Lily’s school.

The director called me, not Helen. “Mr. Torres? There’s a man here who claims to be Lily’s father. She has documentation, but Lily is… hidden under her desk and she doesn’t want to go out.”

I broke all speed limits to get there. Four other Desert Wolves followed me. We entered the school as an invading force.

Brad Patterson was in the principal’s office, looking smaller than he expected. Prison had aged him, but it was methamphetamine that really caused him the harm. Sunken eyes, missing teeth, that nervous energy of someone whose brain has been rewired forever.

“You can’t separate me from my daughter,” she said when she saw me.

“I’m not. The restraining order is.

“That expired when I was inside.”

“Helen filed a new complaint yesterday when we found out you were going out.”

His face turned red. “She is MY daughter. MINE.”

“No,” I said calmly. She is the daughter of the woman you murdered. She is the granddaughter of the woman who picked up the pieces. She is the honorary niece of fifteen motorcyclists who have raised her. But it’s not yours. You lost that right when you took her mother.

I have changed. I have found God…

Good for you. Find it elsewhere. Far from Lily.

Do you think you’re his father now? An old biker playing house?

I’m just the one who asked you to be your dad at a gas station because yours is a monster.

He lunged at me. Bad decision. Tank and Crow had him on the ground before he could land a punch. The police arrived while we were restraining him, and Lily’s principal recorded everything with her phone.

Brad returned to prison for assault, violation of restraining order and attempted kidnapping. This time he was given twenty years without parole.

That night, Lily couldn’t sleep. He snuggled up on my lap on Helen’s porch, with Mr. Hoppy holding on tightly.

Mr. V? Why did my first dad want to hurt people?

“I don’t know, little one. There are people who have something broken inside.

“Can it be fixed?”

Sometimes. But sometimes broken pieces hurt others, and we have to stay away even if they are fixed.

“Was it always broken?”

“No. Your grandmother says he was once a good boy. The drugs broke him.

“So drugs are bad?”

“Very bad.”

Mr. V? It’s broken?

I thought of my wife and daughter, who had disappeared for twenty-two years. In the rage that consumed me until the Desert Wolves brought me back to my purpose.

“It was. But I’ve gotten better.

“How?”

Helping others. Being useful. Finding a new family when I lost the first one.

How did I find you?

“Exactly like this.”

She was silent for a moment and then said, “Mr. V? Can I call him dad? Not always. Only sometimes. When I need a dad instead of a tutor or Mr. V.”

Helen made a soft sound from the door where she had been listening.

“Yes, little one. You can call me dad whenever you need to.

“I need it now.”

“Good.”

“Dad?”

“Yes?”

“Mr. Hoppy loves you.”

“I love Mr. Hoppy too.”

That was four years ago. Lily already has nine, almost ten. He still spends weekends with me, afternoons at the store, and weekdays with Helen. The Desert Wolves are still his uncles, teaching him everything from motorcycle maintenance to chess.

She no longer talks about her biological father. The therapist says she has processed the trauma extraordinarily well, thanks to her stable support network. What he could not get from a single father figure, he got from fifteen.

Last month was the Father’s Day school program. The children were supposed to bring their parents to sing a song together. Lily invited me.

“Sure?” I asked. “I don’t look like the other dads.”

“You look like MY dad,” she said firmly.

So I went. Me and four other Desert Wolves who, according to Lily, were also her parents. We got on that little elementary school stage—five huge leather-clad bikers—and sang “You Are My Sunshine” with a nine-year-old girl in a pink dress.

There was not a single dry eye in the auditorium.

After the program, another parent approached us. “It was beautiful. Are they related to Lily?”

Tank replied, “We’re their parents.”

“All of you?”

“All children should have the same luck,” Crow said.

“Have five parents?”

“To have people who choose to love them,” I corrected. Biology does not make a father. Presence does.

Brad Patterson can be released when Lily is twenty-seven. By then, she’ll have graduated from college (the Desert Wolves have already set up a fund), maybe she’ll be married, and have children. He will be strong enough to face it or ignore it, as he prefers.

Helen is still with us, more fragile now, but as fierce as ever. He says that the Desert Wolves gave him back his granddaughter by giving Lily back her childhood.

“I should be shattered,” Helen told me recently. “After what he saw, what he experienced. But look at it.”

“We saw Lily teaching a younger child in the shop how to check tire pressure, patient and kind,” Mr. Hoppy said in his back pocket.

“It’s not broken because it was never alone,” I said. “As soon as he approached me at that gas station, he had family.”

“A motorcycle gang like family.”

The best family. The one you choose.

Last week, Lily asked me something that left me paralyzed.

Papa V? When I grow up, will I be able to be a Desert Wolf too?

Women can join. We have three partners.

Not bad. Because I want to be like you. Find sad children and make them happy. Scare bad people and be nice to good people. Can Mr. Hoppy be a member as well?

Mr. Hoppy is now an honorary member.

“Perfect. He paused. Papa V? Do you think my real dad ever thinks about me?

“I’m sure it does.”

“Do you think he’s sorry?”

«Չգիտեմ, փոքրիկ»։

I hope so. Not for him. So that he knows that he could not have met me. Because I’m amazing.

“Yes, it’s you.”

And I hope he knows that you’re my dad now. All of you. And that I’m happy. Very, very happy.

She ran out to help Tank with an oil change, Mr. Hoppy bouncing in his pocket, leaving me standing there with tears in my eyes.

Once, a five-year-old girl asked me to be her dad at a gas station. I told him that I could be his friend. I became so much more. We all did.

MC of the Desert Wolves: fifteen bikers who became parents to a girl whose world collapsed. We couldn’t fix what was broken, we couldn’t recover what was lost, we couldn’t erase what she saw.

But we could be there. Every day. Without fail.

And sometimes, that’s all a child needs: someone to show up.

Someone who stays.

Someone who shows that not all dads hurt people.

Some dads just love you, teach you about motorcycles, read to your stuffed bunny, and sing out of tune on elementary school stages.

Some dads choose you at the gas stations.

And sometimes, if you’re really lucky like Lily, you won’t have just one dad.

You’ll get an entire motorcycle club.