From the trucks stepped three women in dark coats. One carried a folded American flag sealed inside clear plastic. Another held a small wooden box. A tall African American rider in his early sixties approached Sergeant McKinley.
“Evening, sir,” he said politely. “We are here for the watch.”
“What watch?” McKinley asked.
“For Scott Collins,” the man answered.
The bearded rider spoke again. “He rode with us fifteen years. He never missed a charity escort. Never skipped a hospital run for a sick kid.”
He nodded toward the house. “His daughter is inside.”
Mrs. Callahan slowly lowered her phone.
The tall rider added, “The service is tomorrow. Tonight we stand so she does not hear strangers arguing. So she does not feel alone.”
The wooden box was opened. Inside were battery powered candles. Without ceremony, the candles were passed along the line. Each man accepted one and held it carefully as rain streaked down his sleeves.
The bearded rider stepped forward and knelt near the edge of the walkway. He placed a single glowing candle by the mailbox, then returned to his place.