“Here he is, Sister,” Jump whispered at my side. My chest tightened. All the men had ridden in formation and entered Rock Hills Cemetery. They had parked their scooters one by one then stood with me. Jump and Alicia had led me here to Dig’s grave. The vast sky with its puffs of popcorn clouds took my breath away. Here was one of the many beautiful, natural phenomenons of the Great Plains. The breeze tugged at my hair. We were tiny specks on this patch of stone-enclosed green. My eyes rested on the stone marker.   Jake “Dig” Quillen Loyal Brother & Beloved Husband 1963 - 1998   The club’s skull logo was engraved over Dig’s name. I closed my eyes for a moment and savored the rush of cool air that wafted over us. I’m here, baby. Finally here. That’s what had tortured me for years, on top of all the rest of the horror, that I’d never had a chance to formally say goodbye to my husband. I had never touched his cold cheek or planted a kiss on his stiff chest before they sealed the lid of his coffin.
