GENTLE HANDS IN A SHATTERED HOME
Two riders remained.
One said his name was Nolan. The other, a massive man called Bryce.
They moved carefully through our doorway.
Margaret tensed the moment she saw them.
I rushed to her. “It’s okay. They’re here to help.”
Nolan crouched slowly, leaving space between them.
“Ma’am,” he said kindly, “I used to work EMS. May I take a look at your lip?”
His tone was so tender it clashed with the leather on his back.
Margaret gave a hesitant nod.
He cleaned the cut with steady, practiced hands. Bryce inspected the broken door frame and began securing it using tools he retrieved from his saddlebag.
The contrast felt unreal.
The men our neighbors feared were wiping syrup from our floor and reinforcing our hinges.
