When I was seven, my family drove to the Grand Canyon.
At one point, my favorite blanket flew out the window and was gone.
I was devastated. Soon after, we stopped at a service station. Moping, I found a bench and was about to eat my sandwich when a biker gang pulled into the station.
“Is that your blue Ford?” a huge, frightening man with a gray-and-black beard asked.
Mom nodded reticently. The man pulled my blanket from his jacket pocket and handed it to her. He then returned to his motorcycle.
I repaid him the only way I knew how: I ran up to him and gave him my sandwich.
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