The bikers started arriving at my house just after midnight, and I was ready to call the police on every single one of them.

I hated bikers. Always had. Loud. Obnoxious. Breaking noise ordinances at all hours. Our quiet suburban neighborhood didn’t need their kind around. So when I heard the rumble of motorcycles pulling up to my curb at 12

AM, I grabbed my phone and looked out the window ready to dial 911.

Fifteen of them. Then twenty. Then thirty. All parking in front of my house. Leather vests. Beards. Tattooed arms. Everything I despised about their culture. They killed their engines but didn’t leave. Just stood there. Staring at my house. At my son’s bedroom window on the second floor.

My son Tyler was sixteen. Good kid. Quiet. Spent most of his time in his room online. I thought he was doing homework. Gaming with friends. Normal teenage stuff. I had no idea what he’d been posting. What he’d been planning. What he’d written in those forums where angry boys become dangerous men.

The doorbell rang. I yanked it open ready to threaten every single one of them with trespassing charges. The biggest biker stood there, phone in his hand, and before I could speak he said seven words that made my blood run ice cold: “Your son’s planning a school shooting tomorrow.”

My name is Robert Chen. Fifty-two years old. Lawyer. Three-bedroom house in Westwood Acres. Neighborhood association president. Everything proper. Everything by the rules.

And I despised bikers.

They represented everything wrong with society. No respect for noise ordinances. Property values dropped when they moved in. Their motorcycles woke my wife at 6 AM every Saturday. I’d called the police on them seventeen times in two years.