I followed Forge to the truck.

So did Sophie.

Inside weren’t groceries.

There were hundreds of empty cardboard boxes.

Labels.

Packing tape.

And a stack of handwritten addresses.

“What is all this?” I asked.

Forge looked at Sophie.

“Your cookies are going somewhere.”

“Where?”

He handed her one of the addresses.

It belonged to a children’s rehabilitation center ninety miles away.

Another went to a shelter for families escaping homelessness.

Another to an elementary school that provided weekend meals for children.

Sophie stared at the list.

“You’re giving them away?”

Forge nodded.

“We’ll make sure every box reaches a kid whose family can’t buy one.”

Then he looked toward the tiny green vest hanging from the mirror.

“My daughter made that.”

Her name was Mia.

She had joined Scouts at seven.

At nine, she was diagnosed with a brain tumor.

She insisted on completing one final fundraising season.

Her troop needed to sell 1,500 boxes.

They had only sold 1,100 when Mia became too sick to continue.

She died before the campaign ended.

Forge never sold the remaining cookies.

He stored them in his garage until they expired.

Then, three years later, he realized he had been remembering the wrong part.

“Mia didn’t love selling cookies.”

“She loved where the money went.”

So he started a private tradition.

Every year, his motorcycle club purchased surplus cookies from struggling Scout troops.

Then they delivered them to children who would never otherwise afford them.

No cameras.

No sponsors.

No publicity.

Just riders loading boxes into trucks at sunrise.

Sophie looked at him.

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

Forge shrugged.

“Then you’d think we wanted applause.”

He pointed toward the cashbox.

“That’s not why we came.”

---

That evening, the riders loaded every remaining cookie box.

But before the truck left, Sophie noticed something strange.

A small envelope sat beneath the driver’s seat.

Her name was written on it.

She opened it carefully.

Inside was a photograph.

A little girl in a green Scout vest stood beside a giant biker whose beard was still mostly black.

Mia.

Behind the photograph was a handwritten sentence:

Find the troop she promised to help.

Forge saw the note.

His face went pale.

“I haven’t seen that.”

“Where did you find it?”

Sophie pointed toward the truck.

“Under the seat.”

Forge stared at the photograph.

Then at the old vest hanging from the mirror.

“I thought…”

He stopped.

He looked toward his riders.

“Turn the truck around.”

Everyone froze.

“Where are we going?”

Forge folded the photograph.

“Missouri.”

I frowned.

“Why?”

He answered quietly.

“Because Mia’s original troop disappeared.”

END OF PART 2