Chapter 1: The Weight of a Wednesday
\nThe rain in Oakhaven didn\u2019t wash things clean; it just made the grime slicker.<\/p>\n
Arthur Vance sat in his usual booth at the corner of \u2018Patriot\u2019s Diner,\u2019 the one with the duct tape on the red vinyl seat that always snagged his trousers. At eighty-two years old, Arthur was much like the booth: worn out, patched up, and largely invisible to the world rushing past the grease-stained window.
\nHe looked down at his hands. They were trembling again. Not from fear \u2013 Arthur had left his fear in a rice paddy in 1968 \u2013 but from the Parkinson\u2019s that was slowly stealing his autonomy, one shake at a time. Between his calloused fingers, he held a small, velvet box. It was navy blue, the fabric crushed at the corners.<\/p>\n
\u201cMore coffee, Artie?\u201d
\nArthur looked up. Marge, the waitress who had been working here since the Reagan administration, hovered over him with a pot of decaf. She looked tired, the lines around her eyes deepening under the fluorescent lights.
\n\u201cNo, thank you, Marge,\u201d Arthur said, his voice raspy, like dry leaves scraping pavement. \u201cI think\u2026 I think I\u2019m ready to go.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou sure, hon? You\u2019ve been staring at that box for an hour. Is today the day?\u201d
\nArthur nodded slowly. \u201cRent\u2019s due, Marge. And the heat bill came in pink yesterday. They turn it off on Friday if I don\u2019t pay.\u201d<\/p>\n
Marge sighed, a sound that carried the weight of a thousand unpaid bills. \u201cI can float you a burger, Artie. You know that.\u201d
\n\u201cI don\u2019t take charity, Margaret,\u201d Arthur said, straightening his spine as much as his curved back would allow. It was a point of pride, perhaps the only one he had left. \u201cI earned this. It should be enough to keep the lights on for another month.\u201d
\nHe placed two crumpled dollar bills on the table for the coffee, donned his faded green field jacket \u2013 the one with the \u201c1st Cavalry Division\u201d patch fraying at the shoulder \u2013 and grabbed his cane. It was a simple wooden stick, hand-carved, the varnish long gone.<\/p>\n
Getting up was a battle. His knees popped, protesting the damp chill of the Pennsylvania afternoon. He tucked the velvet box deep into his pocket, keeping his hand over it as if it were a grenade he had to keep the pin in.
\nHe pushed open the diner door, and the cold wetness hit him instantly. The parking lot was full. It was lunch rush for the high schoolers from the wealthy side of town \u2013 the kids who drove SUVs bought by daddy and wore sneakers that cost more than Arthur\u2019s monthly social security check.
\nArthur kept his head down, navigating the puddles. He just needed to get to the pawnshop three blocks over. Just three blocks.<\/p>\n
\u201cYo, check it out! It\u2019s G.I. Joke!\u201d
\nThe voice was loud, cracking with adolescent arrogance. Arthur stiffened but didn\u2019t stop. He knew the voice. Kyle Henderson. The kind of kid who thought the world existed solely to serve as his background audience.
\nArthur heard the slap of wet footsteps behind him. He tried to quicken his pace, but his cane slipped on a patch of oil. He stumbled, barely catching himself.
\n\u201cWhere you running to, old man?\u201d Kyle was in front of him now, blocking the path to the sidewalk. He was flanked by two friends, Brad and Justin. They were big kids, fed on protein shakes and entitlement, wearing varsity jackets for a team they probably sat on the bench for.<\/p>\n
\u201cExcuse me, son,\u201d Arthur muttered, trying to step around them. \u201cI\u2019m just trying to get by.\u201d
\n\u201cSon?\u201d Kyle laughed, looking back at his friends. He pulled out his iPhone, hitting record. \u201cDid you hear that? He called me son. Do I look like your son, grandpa? My dad actually makes money.\u201d
\n\u201cPlease,\u201d Arthur said, his hand tightening over the velvet box in his pocket. \u201cI don\u2019t want any trouble.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThen you shouldn\u2019t be taking up so much space,\u201d Kyle sneered. He stepped closer, towering over Arthur. \u201cYou smell like mothballs and failure. Why don\u2019t you do us all a favor and go back to the nursing home?\u201d
\nArthur looked into the boy\u2019s eyes. He saw nothing there. No empathy. No history. Just a hollow cruelty looking for a viral moment.
\n\u201cI served this country,\u201d Arthur said quietly. It was the only card he had to play, and he knew, even as he said it, that it was useless here.<\/p>\n
\u201cYeah? You and a million other losers,\u201d Kyle spat. \u201cAnd what did it get you? A cane and a discount at the diner?\u201d
\nKyle lashed out a foot, hooking it around Arthur\u2019s cane.
\nHe yanked.
\nIt happened in slow motion for Arthur. The cane flew from his grip, clattering across the wet asphalt. His balance, already precarious, vanished. He threw his hands out, but his legs were too weak to correct the fall.<\/p>\n
Thud.
\nArthur hit the ground hard. The air left his lungs in a painful whoosh. Cold, oily mud splashed into his face, stinging his eyes. His hip screamed in agony.
\nAbove him, the laughter exploded. It wasn\u2019t just Kyle and his friends. Other kids, sitting in their cars or smoking by the entrance, were laughing too. Or worse, they were just watching, phones raised, capturing the humiliation in 4K resolution.
\n\u201cLook at him!\u201d Kyle shouted, circling Arthur like a vulture. \u201cDuty calls! Man down! We need a medic for the dinosaur!\u201d<\/p>\n
Arthur tried to push himself up, but his arms were shaking too violently. He felt the hot sting of tears mixing with the rain on his face. It wasn\u2019t the pain. He could handle pain. It was the indignity. To survive the jungle, to survive the loss of his wife, to survive cancer, only to end up face-down in a puddle while children laughed at him.
\n\u201cPlease,\u201d Arthur whispered, his voice cracking. \u201cMy cane.\u201d
\nKyle walked over to the cane. He looked at it, then looked at Arthur. He smirked and kicked the cane further away, sending it skittering under a parked dumpster.
\n\u201cFetch,\u201d Kyle said.
\nThe laughter grew louder. Arthur squeezed his eyes shut. He felt the velvet box digging into his hip. He hoped it hadn\u2019t broken. If the clasp broke, if the medal fell out\u2026<\/p>\n
Then, he felt it.
\nIt wasn\u2019t a sound at first. It was a vibration.
\nThe puddle right in front of Arthur\u2019s nose began to ripple. Tiny concentric circles, dancing faster and faster.
\nThe asphalt beneath his cheek hummed.
\nThrum-thrum-thrum-thrum.
\nThe laughter around him faltered.
\n\u201cWhat is that?\u201d one of the other boys asked, looking toward the main road.<\/p>\n
The sound grew. It wasn\u2019t a car. It wasn\u2019t a truck. It was a low-frequency roar, a baritone avalanche that rattled the windows of the diner. It sounded like a thunderstorm had decided to roll along the pavement instead of the sky.
\nKyle lowered his phone, his brow furrowing. \u201cIs that thunder?\u201d
\nA single headlight cut through the gray afternoon, blindingly bright. Then another. Then ten. Then forty.<\/p>\n
They turned into the diner lot, moving in a tight, practiced formation. The sound was deafening now, a wall of mechanical aggression that drowned out the rain, the laughter, and the traffic.
\nHarleys. Big, black, customized beasts with ape-hanger bars and exhaust pipes loud enough to wake the dead.
\nThe lead bike was a monstrosity of matte black steel. The rider was a mountain of a man, wearing a leather cut that looked like it had been dragged through hell and stitched back together. On the back, visible as he swung the bike around to block the exit, was a patch that every local knew and feared.<\/p>\n
A skull with a halo of thorns.
\nTHE IRON SAINTS.
\nThey didn\u2019t park. They swarmed. They created a semi-circle of steel and idling engines, boxing in Kyle, his friends, and the fallen Arthur.
\nThe engines cut off in unison, leaving a ringing silence that was somehow louder than the roar.
\nKyle took a step back, his face draining of color. He looked for an exit, but there was nowhere to go. Behind him was the diner wall. In front of him were fifty hardened men who looked like they ate varsity jackets for breakfast.<\/p>\n
The leader, a man known only as \u201cBear,\u201d kicked his kickstand down. The sound of metal hitting asphalt cracked like a gunshot.
\nBear didn\u2019t take off his helmet immediately. He sat there for a second, his visor reflecting Kyle\u2019s terrified face. Then, slowly, he reached up and pulled the helmet off.
\nHe had a thick gray beard, a scar running through his left eyebrow, and eyes that were currently burning with a cold, terrifying fire.<\/p>\n
Bear dismounted. He was six-foot-five, easily three hundred pounds of muscle and road-weary grit. He ignored Kyle completely.
\nHe walked straight to Arthur.
\nThe other bikers dismounted behind him. Chains rattled. Boots crunched on gravel. They formed a wall, crossing their arms, staring at the teenagers with predatory focus.
\nBear knelt down in the mud, ruining the knees of his jeans without a second thought. He reached out a massive, tattooed hand and gently touched Arthur\u2019s shoulder.<\/p>\n
\u201cArtie,\u201d Bear rumbled, his voice surprisingly soft. \u201cYou hurt?\u201d
\nArthur looked up, blinking through the mud. \u201cBear? I\u2026 I slipped. Just a slip.\u201d
\nBear looked at the skid marks in the mud. He looked at the cane under the dumpster. Then he looked up at Kyle.
\nThe softness vanished from Bear\u2019s face. When he stood up, he seemed to blot out the sun.<\/p>\n
He turned to Kyle. The boy was trembling now, the phone slipping from his sweaty grip and clattering to the ground.
\n\u201cHe slipped?\u201d Bear asked. His voice wasn\u2019t a shout. It was a low growl, like a chainsaw idling.
\n\u201cI\u2026 I didn\u2019t\u2026\u201d Kyle stammered, his voice jumping an octave. \u201cWe were just\u2026 joking around. It was just a prank.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cA prank,\u201d Bear repeated, tasting the word like it was poison.
\nBear took one step forward. Kyle took two steps back, hitting the brick wall of the diner.
\n\u201cYou know who this man is?\u201d Bear asked, gesturing to Arthur, who was being gently helped up by two other bikers.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d Kyle squeaked.
\n\u201cThis man,\u201d Bear said, his voice rising just enough so everyone in the parking lot \u2013 and the people watching from the diner windows \u2013 could hear, \u201csaved my father\u2019s life in the A Shau Valley in 1969. He carried him four miles on a shattered ankle while taking fire.\u201d
\nBear leaned in, his face inches from Kyle\u2019s. Kyle could smell tobacco, leather, and impending violence.
\n\u201cAnd you just shoved him in the mud for a TikTok.\u201d<\/p>\n
Bear reached out and grabbed the lapels of Kyle\u2019s expensive varsity jacket. He didn\u2019t hit him. He just lifted him. He lifted him until Kyle\u2019s expensive sneakers were dangling two inches off the ground.
\n\u201cI think,\u201d Bear whispered, \u201cwe need to teach you a lesson about respect. And class is officially in session.\u201d
\nBear lowered Kyle, not gently. The boy\u2019s expensive sneakers hit the wet asphalt with a splat, and he stumbled back against the diner wall, looking like a cornered animal. His face was pale, his eyes wide with genuine fear.<\/p>\n
Arthur, now sitting on a makeshift bench one of the other bikers, a man named Knuckles, had quickly brought from the diner, watched the scene unfold. His hip ached, but the searing pain was replaced by a strange mix of satisfaction and concern. He looked at Kyle, then at Bear. He knew Bear\u2019s anger was righteous, but Arthur had seen enough violence in his life to know it wasn\u2019t always the answer.
\n\u201cBear,\u201d Arthur rasped, his voice still a little weak. Bear\u2019s head snapped towards him, his eyes still smoldering. \u201cThey need to learn, yes. But not like that.\u201d Arthur gestured vaguely at the tense, silent circle of bikers. He meant physical harm.
\nBear held Arthur\u2019s gaze for a long moment, a silent conversation passing between the old warrior and the younger, hardened leader. He finally gave a slow, deliberate nod. Arthur\u2019s moral compass, even after all these years, remained true.<\/p>\n
Bear turned back to Kyle, his face still grim. \u201cYou think you\u2019re tough, huh? You think disrespecting an elder, a war hero, is funny?\u201d He bent down and picked up Kyle\u2019s dropped iPhone from the greasy pavement. The screen was cracked. \u201cThis little device, this is what you value, isn\u2019t it? Your \u2018likes\u2019 and \u2018views\u2019.\u201d He tossed the phone into a nearby puddle with a disdainful splash.
\nKyle let out a small whimper, but dared not move. Bear then pointed a thick finger at the dumpster under which Arthur\u2019s cane lay. \u201cAlright, boys. Lesson one.\u201d
\nThe Iron Saints were a brotherhood, fiercely loyal, and organized. They didn\u2019t just intimidate; they operated with a brutal efficiency that was often more terrifying than outright violence. Bear\u2019s orders were sharp, clear, and utterly humiliating.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou three,\u201d Bear commanded, pointing at Kyle, Brad, and Justin. \u201cYou\u2019re going to clean this entire parking lot. Every scrap of litter, every cigarette butt, every muddy patch. By hand.\u201d He gestured to the largest, filthiest puddle near the dumpster. \u201cAnd you, Kyle, you\u2019re going to start by getting Mr. Vance\u2019s cane. Then you\u2019ll clean it until it shines.\u201d
\nKyle\u2019s jaw dropped, but no words came out. Brad and Justin exchanged panicked glances, but a stony stare from Hammer, another massive biker, quickly silenced them. There was no argument, no appeal. Just the cold, hard reality of men who meant business.
\nThe boys slowly, reluctantly, started their task. Kyle, with trembling hands, retrieved Arthur\u2019s cane, wiping the mud from its worn surface with his expensive jacket sleeve. It was a crude, ineffective gesture, but a start. They were given no tools, only their hands and the occasional dirty napkin one of the bikers tossed them. The rain, which had eased to a drizzle, now seemed to mock their efforts, making the grime slicker.<\/p>\n
As the boys miserably scrubbed at the ground, Bear walked back to Arthur. He knelt beside him, his gaze softening. \u201cArtie, what\u2019s really in that box you were holding onto so tight?\u201d
\nArthur hesitated, his hand instinctively going to his pocket. He pulled out the small, velvet box. His trembling fingers fumbled with the clasp, then opened it. Inside, nestled on faded satin, wasn\u2019t just a single medal. There was a tarnished but still gleaming Silver Star, its five points sharp. Alongside it, a faded, corroded dog tag lay, its inscription barely visible.
\n\u201cThis,\u201d Arthur said, his voice thick with emotion, his gaze distant, \u201cbelonged to your father, Silas. He made me promise to keep it safe, to return it only when I truly needed to, or when I found someone worthy of his sacrifice.\u201d<\/p>\n
Bear stared at the medal, his eyes wide. Silas. His father. He knew his father had been a decorated veteran, but a Silver Star? He\u2019d never seen this medal, nor this particular dog tag, which bore the name \u2018Silas Vance\u2019. Bear\u2019s own surname was Vance. This was his family\u2019s heritage, held by Arthur.
\n\u201cHe told me, \u2018Arthur, if you ever get truly low, and you need a reminder of what we fought for, this is it. Or if you meet someone who needs to learn what true courage is, show them this.\u2019\u201d Arthur\u2019s voice cracked. \u201cI was going to pawn it, Bear. To keep my heat on. To keep the lights on for another month.\u201d
\nBear reached out a massive hand, his fingers tracing the outline of the Silver Star. His father\u2019s medal. His father, Silas Vance, a man Arthur had saved. The hard lines on Bear\u2019s face softened, then tightened with a renewed, cold fury. \u201cYou were going to pawn my father\u2019s Silver Star?\u201d he rumbled, his voice low and choked with emotion. \u201cTo keep your heat on?\u201d<\/p>\n
Arthur nodded, tears welling in his eyes again, mixing with the mud on his cheek. \u201cI tried to hold onto it, Bear. For fifty-five years. A promise I made to him on that miserable day. But I\u2019m at the end. I had no choice.\u201d
\nBear stood up, the Silver Star clutched in his hand. His eyes, now blazing with a terrifying intensity, swept over the three boys still half-heartedly scrubbing the parking lot. The shame and anger he felt on behalf of Arthur, and now his own father, was palpable.
\n\u201cYou see this man?\u201d Bear roared, holding up the Silver Star for Kyle and his friends to see. The boys froze, their hands still in the muck. \u201cThis is not just any medal. This is a Silver Star. My father, Silas Vance, earned this fighting for the freedom you take for granted! And this man, Arthur, was going to sell it just to survive!\u201d<\/p>\n
The silence that followed was heavy, punctuated only by the distant rumble of traffic and the boys\u2019 ragged breathing. This was the \u201cbrutal lesson\u201d Bear intended: not just physical discomfort, but a shattering of their entitled world, a forced confrontation with true sacrifice and profound hardship.
\nBear wasn\u2019t done. He made Kyle and his friends stop their cleaning. \u201cYou want to understand what respect means?\u201d he growled. \u201cYou\u2019re going to listen. All of you.\u201d He gestured to Arthur. \u201cMr. Vance is going to tell you a story. Not about glory, but about the real cost. And you will listen to every word.\u201d
\nAs Arthur, with Bear\u2019s help, began to tell tales of the A Shau Valley, of the comrades he lost, of the courage it took just to survive another day, the boys listened, mesmerized despite themselves. The casual cruelty had been replaced by a grim fascination, then by something akin to shock. They heard about Silas Vance, a man of incredible bravery, and the bond he shared with Arthur, a bond forged in fire and blood.<\/p>\n
Suddenly, a sleek black Mercedes-Benz, polished to a mirror sheen, screeched to a halt at the diner entrance, narrowly avoiding one of the parked Harleys. Kyle\u2019s father, Mr. Robert Henderson, stepped out. He was a sharply dressed man in an expensive suit, his face contorted with fury. He looked utterly out of place amidst the leather and steel.
\n\u201cWhat in God\u2019s name is going on here?\u201d Mr. Henderson demanded, his voice booming as he spotted his son, covered in mud, holding a rag. \u201cBear, what is the meaning of this? You can\u2019t just accost my son!\u201d
\nBear turned, the Silver Star still clutched in his hand. He looked at Mr. Henderson with an unsettling calm. \u201cMr. Henderson. We meet again.\u201d Bear had a history with Robert, a history rooted in the subtle power struggles of Oakhaven, where wealth and old money often clashed with raw, unyielding influence.<\/p>\n
\u201cAccost?\u201d Bear scoffed, holding up the medal for Robert to see. \u201cYour son was mocking a man who saved my father\u2019s life. A man who, to keep himself from freezing in his own home, was about to pawn this.\u201d He gestured to Arthur, then to the Silver Star. \u201cThis belonged to Silas Vance. My father.\u201d
\nMr. Henderson\u2019s face, initially flushed with anger, now drained of color. His eyes widened as he looked from the medal to Arthur, then back to Bear. \u201cSilas Vance?\u201d he whispered, a tremor in his voice. \u201cNo\u2026 that\u2019s\u2026 that\u2019s not possible.\u201d
\nBear raised an eyebrow, a flicker of suspicion in his gaze. \u201cYou know the name?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMy\u2026 my grandfather spoke of him,\u201d Mr. Henderson stammered, his usual swagger completely gone. \u201cHe was in his unit. A legend. A true hero.\u201d Robert\u2019s own family had a military history, one he rarely spoke of, preferring to focus on his self-made wealth. But his grandfather, a stern, honorable man, had often spoken of the heroes he knew, and Silas Vance was one of them. Robert had conveniently forgotten those stories, or perhaps suppressed them, as they didn\u2019t fit his image.
\n\u201cHe lived,\u201d Bear corrected, his voice firm. \u201cThanks to Arthur here. My father passed away peacefully in his sleep, twenty years ago, always speaking of his brother-in-arms, Arthur. Arthur Vance.\u201d
\nThe revelation hit Mr. Henderson like a physical blow. The man his son had humiliated, the \u2018G.I. Joke\u2019, was a direct link to his own family\u2019s proud, forgotten past. The shame was suffocating. He looked at Arthur, seeing not a pathetic old man, but a living piece of history, a silent monument to courage and sacrifice.<\/p>\n
\u201cKyle!\u201d Mr. Henderson barked, his voice devoid of its earlier bluster, now laced with a mixture of shame and fury. \u201cGet over here! Now!\u201d Kyle scrambled, tripping over his own feet, his face streaked with mud and tears. \u201cYou will apologize to Mr. Vance. And you will make amends. Personally.\u201d
\nThe \u201cbrutal lesson\u201d had taken its true form. It wasn\u2019t about broken bones, but about broken illusions and shattered arrogance. Bear, with the full backing of the Iron Saints, laid out the terms, not as a threat, but as an undeniable decree.
\n\u201cThese boys,\u201d Bear announced, his voice carrying across the parking lot, \u201cwill volunteer at the local Veterans\u2019 Hall every weekend for the next year. Not just showing up, but working. Cleaning, serving, listening.\u201d<\/p>\n
He continued, his gaze fixed on Mr. Henderson. \u201cAnd you, Mr. Henderson, will ensure Mr. Vance\u2019s home is repaired, heated, and maintained. Not as charity, but as a debt. A debt your family owes to this man who represents everything your son mocked.\u201d
\nMr. Henderson, humbled and deeply embarrassed, could only nod. He knew the Iron Saints were not to be trifled with, and the public nature of this humiliation was a powerful deterrent. His carefully constructed image was crumbling. He also felt a genuine pang of guilt, a forgotten sense of respect stirring within him.
\nThe Iron Saints didn\u2019t just leave after delivering their judgment. True to their code, they acted. Over the next few days, Arthur\u2019s small, decaying house became a hive of activity. Members of the Iron Saints, along with local tradesmen arranged by a contrite Mr. Henderson, repaired the leaky roof, fixed the broken heating system, and reinforced the rickety porch. They even installed a ramp for easier access.
\nArthur, sitting on his newly painted porch, watching the transformations, felt a warmth spread through him that had nothing to do with the restored heat. He was no longer invisible. He was seen, respected, and cared for. His small community, stirred by the story that quickly spread, rallied around him. Marge, from the diner, organized a meal train. Neighbors brought fresh baked goods.
\nThe Silver Star, that symbol of immense sacrifice, was given by Arthur to Bear. \u201cIt belongs with Silas\u2019s son,\u201d Arthur had insisted, his voice firm. Bear, deeply moved, accepted it, promising to display it with the honor it deserved. He also pledged to establish the \u2018Silas Vance & Arthur Vance Veterans\u2019 Comfort Fund\u2019 through the Iron Saints, to support other struggling veterans in Oakhaven.
\nKyle, Brad, and Justin\u2019s transformation wasn\u2019t instantaneous. It was a slow, painful process. The initial resentment simmered, but the constant work at the Veterans\u2019 Hall, the stories they heard, and the quiet dignity of the men and women they served, slowly chipped away at their entitlement. They started to see the world beyond their privileged bubble, to understand the true meaning of courage, sacrifice, and community. Mr. Henderson, too, underwent a subtle change, becoming more involved in local veteran charities, his focus shifting from pure profit to genuine contribution.<\/p>\n
Arthur Vance lived out his days with dignity and comfort, surrounded by a community that cherished him. He often sat on his porch, watching the world go by, a faint smile on his lips. He had faced down death in the jungle and indignity in a parking lot, but in the end, he found peace and belonging, not through violence, but through the unwavering power of truth, respect, and unexpected brotherhood.
\nThe world can be a cruel place, but sometimes, a shared history, a forgotten medal, and a group of unlikely heroes can remind us that the greatest lessons are often taught not with fists, but with a firm hand, a stern voice, and the raw, undeniable truth of human decency. Respect is not given; it is earned, and it must be given in return, especially to those who have sacrificed so much.
\nIf this story touched your heart, please consider sharing it and liking the post. Let\u2019s spread a message of respect and empathy for all.<\/p>\n
My Son Sent Me On A Luxury Island Vacation, But When I Went Back To Grab My Heart Pills I Heard The Real Reason He Never Wanted Me To Come Home Again<\/p>\n
My Mother-in-law Tossed My Late Mom\u2019s Diary Into The Fire On Christmas Eve And Smirked\u2026 Then My Quiet Grandfather Walked In And Changed Everything
\nUpdated News Post
\nWe’d love to hear from you! Let us know what you think by clicking on our Facebook pages below and leaving us a comment. Your feedback helps us bring you the stories you love.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Chapter 1: The Weight of a Wednesday The rain in Oakhaven didn\u2019t wash things clean; it just made the grime slicker. Arthur Vance sat in his usual… <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":38877,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-38876","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thedailyglow.fun\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/38876","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thedailyglow.fun\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thedailyglow.fun\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thedailyglow.fun\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thedailyglow.fun\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=38876"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/thedailyglow.fun\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/38876\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":38878,"href":"https:\/\/thedailyglow.fun\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/38876\/revisions\/38878"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thedailyglow.fun\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/38877"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thedailyglow.fun\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=38876"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thedailyglow.fun\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=38876"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thedailyglow.fun\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=38876"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}