Can I share this table? Yeah, have a seat. Her name is Grace. She’s my The coffee shop was packed on Sunday morning. Every table occupied when she appeared in the doorway. A girl, maybe 10, wearing clothes two sizes too big and shoes held together with duct tape.

The Crossroads Cafe sat on Main Street in Bend, Oregon, where Sunday mornings meant families after church, college students cramming for finals, and locals reading newspapers over endless refills. It was the kind of place where conversation flowed easy, where the smell of fresh ground coffee mixed with cinnamon rolls, where people came to feel part of something comfortable and familiar.

Diesel Hayes sat alone at a fourtop near the window, working through his third cup of black coffee and a stack of invoices from his custom fabrication shop. At 46, he was a fixture in Ben’s biker community, president of the High Desert Charter, respected for his welding skills and his unwavering code. Protect those who can’t protect themselves.

His table was covered with paperwork, calculator, and a halfeaten bagel he’d forgotten about an hour ago. Around him, every other table was full. Groups of women laughing over brunch, families with restless children, couples reading separate sections of the newspaper in comfortable silence.

The cafe hummed with that particular energy that Sunday mornings have, unhurried, warm, wrapped in the illusion that the world outside could wait. Then the door opened and a girl walked in. Diesel noticed her immediately, not because she was loud or disruptive, but because she was so clearly out of place. She looked about 10, rail thin, with tangled dark hair that hadn’t seen a brush in days.

She wore an oversized men’s jacket that hung past her knees, jeans with holes that weren’t fashionable but worn through, and sneakers held together with duct tape wrapped around the soles. A backpack hung from her shoulders, bulging with something heavy. But it was her face that caught his attention. Exhausted beyond her years, eyes darting around the cafe with nervous energy, searching for something, she approached the first table.

A group of well-dressed women with shopping bags piled beside their chairs. Diesel couldn’t hear what she said, but he saw their reaction. The immediate head shakes, the turned shoulders, the subtle shift to close ranks around their table. The girl moved on. Second table, a family with two young boys eating pancakes. The father saw her coming and spoke before she even reached them, shaking his head firmly.

His wife looked away. Third table, an elderly couple. The woman’s face showed pity, but the man said something sharp and the girl flinched, backing away quickly. Diesel watched her work her way through the cafe, getting the same response from every table. Some people were polite about it, offering apologetic smiles.

Others were blunt, irritated by the interruption. One man actually raised his voice loud enough for the whole cafe to hear. We don’t give money to beggars. There are shelters for people like you. The girl’s face flushed red, but she didn’t respond. Didn’t defend herself. She just moved to the next table. Finally, she reached Diesel.

She stood 3 ft away, small and trembling, like a bird that might take flight at any sudden movement. Her eyes met his for just a second before dropping to the floor. Can I share this table? Her voice was barely audible over the cafe noise. Everyone else is full. Diesel looked at her. Really looked. The exhaustion carved into her young face. The way she held herself, shoulders hunched defensively.

The backpack that seemed too heavy for someone her size. The shoes that should have been replaced months ago. Yeah, he said simply, pushing his paperwork aside. Have a seat. Relief flooded her expression. She slid into the chair across from him carefully, like she was afraid he might change his mind. The backpack stayed on her shoulders, clutched tight.

Diesel flagged down the waitress. A woman named Cara, who’d been serving him coffee for 5 years. Menu for the kid and bring her some orange juice to start. Cara glanced at the girl, then at Diesel, understanding passing between them. She returned with a menu and juice without comment.

The girl stared at the menu like it was written in a foreign language, her hands shaking slightly as she held it. “You hungry?” Diesel asked. She nodded without looking up. “When’s the last time you ate?” “Yesterday, I think. Maybe the day before.” Her voice was flat. Matterof fact, like going days without food was normal. Diesel’s jaw tightened. Order whatever you want. I’m buying. The girl’s eyes widened.

I can’t. I don’t have any money to pay you back. Did I ask you to pay me back? She studied his face, looking for the catch, the hidden strings. When she found none, something in her posture relaxed slightly. Pancakes, she whispered. And eggs and bacon, please.

When the food arrived, a stack of pancakes taller than Diesel had expected. Scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, hash browns. The girl didn’t attack it the way most hungry kids would. She ate slowly, deliberately, like someone who’d learned that food might be taken away at any moment. Diesel sipped his coffee and gave her space, not pushing, not demanding explanations, but he observed the way her eyes kept darting to the door. The way she flinched when someone walked past their table too quickly.

The way she kept one hand on her backpack at all times. Protective. What’s your name? He asked gently. Sienna. She took a bite of pancake chewed carefully. What’s yours? Diesel. You live around here. Sienna. She hesitated fork pausing halfway to her mouth. Sort of. That’s not really an answer. I know.

Her voice was small. Diesel waited. Sometimes silence was the best question. Sienna set down her fork and looked at him directly for the first time. Can I ask you something? Shoot. Are you one of the good ones? Diesel’s eyebrows rose. Good ones. Bikers. Some bikers help people. My teacher told me that once.

She said, “If I ever needed help and couldn’t find a police officer, find someone wearing a motorcycle vest.” She said, “They protect kids.” Sienna’s eyes searched his face desperately. “Are you one of those?” Diesel felt something cold settle in his stomach. “This wasn’t a kid asking for spare change or looking for a meal. This was a child who needed help.” “Real help?” “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’m one of those.

What kind of help do you need, Sienna? Sienna’s hands trembled as she reached for her backpack. She pulled it into her lap, fingers working the zipper with nervous energy. I need to show you something, but you have to promise not to call the police right away. Diesel’s instincts screamed caution.

A 10-year-old asking him not to involve authorities meant whatever was in that backpack was serious. I can’t promise that until I know what we’re dealing with, but I can promise I’ll listen first. She considered this, weighing her options with the kind of gravity no child should have to carry. Finally, she unzipped the bag and pulled out a bundle wrapped in a torn pillowcase.

She set it on the table between them carefully, then unwrapped it. Inside was a baby, not a doll. A real living baby, maybe 3 months old, sleeping despite the cafe noise, wrapped in blankets that had seen better days. Tiny face peaceful in sleep. Diesel’s coffee cup stopped halfway to his mouth. Every thought in his head derailed simultaneously. Jesus Christ, he breathed. around them.

The cafe continued its Sunday morning routine, completely oblivious to what had just been revealed at the corner table. Sienna quickly rewrapped the baby, glancing around to make sure nobody had noticed. Her name is Grace. She’s my sister. Diesel’s mind raced through a thousand scenarios. None of them good. Sienna, where are your parents? Mom’s dead.

Overdose 6 months ago. Sienna’s voice was clinical, detached, like she’d had to explain this too many times. We don’t have a dad or if we do. Mom never told me who he was. Who’s been taking care of you? Foster home. The Pattersons. They live on Oakwood Drive. Sienna looked down at the bundle in her lap.

They got me 3 months ago, right after Grace was born. Mom was already sick then. She died two weeks after Grace came. Diesel processed this carefully. Why isn’t Grace with you at the foster home? Sienna’s jaw tightened, anger flashing across her young face. She was until yesterday. Mr.

Patterson said babies cry too much, cost too much, cause too many problems. He said the state doesn’t pay enough to deal with an infant. So he she stopped swallowing hard. He what? Sienna. He drove us to the hospital last night. Told me to wait in the car with Grace while he went inside, but I saw through the window. He went to the intake desk and told them he found an abandoned baby in the parking lot.

Then he came back to the car and drove us home. Diesel’s blood went cold. He tried to abandon your sister at the hospital. He said it was the best thing for everyone. That Grace would get adopted by a nice family. That I should be grateful he kept me. Sienna’s voice cracked. But Grace is my sister. She’s all I have left.

I can’t let some stranger take her away. So you ran this morning. Mr. Patterson sleeps late on Sundays. I packed Grace’s bottles, diapers, everything I could carry. I walked here because I remembered my teacher saying, “Bikers help kids. I’ve been looking for someone with a vest all morning.” She looked at Diesel with desperate hope.

“You’ll help us, right? You won’t let them separate us.” Diesel’s mind was already moving, calculating, planning. A 10-year-old girl and an infant on the run from a foster home. A man who’ attempted to abandon a baby at a hospital. a system that had clearly failed both children. This wasn’t something he could handle alone. He pulled out his phone.

Sienna, I’m going to make some calls. People I trust. People who can actually help fix this situation properly. Fear flooded her face. You promised you’d listen first. And I did. Now I’m acting. But I’m not calling the police. I’m calling my brothers and a lawyer and someone who knows how to navigate child services without getting you and Grace lost in the system again.

Within 20 minutes, three more Hell’s Angels arrived at the Crossroads Cafe. Tank, a former social worker who’d burned out and found new purpose with the club. Wrench, whose wife Sarah was a family attorney, and Profit, who ran a network of safe houses for women and children fleeing dangerous situations. They took over a larger table in the back corner. Cara quietly moving other customers and creating a buffer zone of privacy.

Tank sat beside Sienna, his massive frame somehow non-threatening as he spoke in low, gentle tones. Sienna, everything you tell us stays protected. We’re not here to judge. We’re here to help. But I need to understand the full situation. Can you walk me through what’s been happening at the Patterson house? Sienna told her story. She and Grace had been placed together 3 months ago after their mother’s death.

At first, the Patterson seemed okay, distant, but not cruel. They had two other foster kids. Both teenagers who mostly ignored Sienna. But as Grace grew, as she cried more, needed more, cost more, Mr. Patterson’s attitude changed. He started making comments about the baby being a burden, about maybe it was time to make some different arrangements.

Two weeks ago, he told Sienna directly that Grace was going to be relocated to a better situation. Yesterday, he’d acted on that threat. “I couldn’t let him give her away,” Sienna said fiercely. “She’s my sister. We’re supposed to stay together. That’s what family means.” Prophet leaned forward. You did the right thing coming to us, but staying on the run with a 3-month-old isn’t sustainable.

She needs formula, diapers, medical care. I have formula, Sienna interrupted, digging into her backpack. And diapers, I packed everything. She pulled out two bottles, a small container of formula powder, and a handful of diapers. Maybe enough for a day if she was lucky. Wrench’s phone buzz.

He stepped away to take the call, returning 2 minutes later with his wife Sarah on speakerphone. Sienna. Sarah’s voice was warm but professional. I’m a family law attorney. What the Pattersons did attempting to abandon Grace, that’s illegal. It’s also grounds for immediate removal of all children from their care. But I need to ask you something important.

Are you and Grace in any immediate danger if you go back? I don’t know, Sienna admitted. Mr. Patterson gets really angry when things don’t go his way. And now Grace and I ran away. He’s probably furious. Then you’re not going back, Tank said firmly. He looked at Prophet. Safe house, Prophet nodded.

I’ve got a spot, clean, secure, fully stocked, run by a woman named Rosa, who’s fostered 20 kids over the years. She’ll know how to handle an infant. Diesel had been quiet, watching, processing. Now he spoke. What’s the legal play here, Sarah? Sarah’s voice came through clear on the speakerphone. We file an emergency petition first thing tomorrow morning.

Document the attempted abandonment, the unsafe foster environment, Sienna’s testimony. We request immediate removal of both children from the Patterson home and temporary placement with a licensed provider. In this case, Rose’s safe house, which is already approved by the state. What are the chances it works? Wrench asked with the evidence. Hi.

Especially if we can get Mr. Patterson on record admitting what he did. But there’s a complication. She paused. The state’s going to want to separate them. Sienna’s 10, relatively low maintenance from a care perspective. Grace is an infant who needs roundthe-clock attention. Most foster homes won’t take both, and the system defaults to splitting siblings when placement options are limited.

Sienna’s hand shot across the table, grabbing Diesel’s arm. No, you can’t let them do that. Grace needs me. I’m all she knows. Diesel covered her hand with his. We’re not going to let that happen, but we need to play this smart. Sarah, what do we need to make sure they stay together? A placement willing to take both.

Someone with the resources, licensing, and capability to handle an infant and a 10-year-old simultaneously. Those are rare. I can petition the court, argue for sibling preservation, but unless we have an actual placement lined up. Rosa will take them, prophet interrupted. I’ll call her right now. Prophet stepped outside to make the call. The others waited in tense silence.

Grace still sleeping peacefully in Sienna’s arms, completely unaware that her entire future was being decided over cold coffee and halfeaten pancakes. 3 minutes later, Prophet returned. Phone still in hand. Rosa says yes. She’s cleared for up to four placements. Currently only has one teenager in residence.

She’s got a nursery set up from her last infant placement 6 months ago. bottles, crib, everything Grace needs. And she says he looked directly at Sienna. She remembers what it’s like when siblings get separated. Her brother was taken from her when she was nine. She didn’t see him again for 30 years. She won’t let it happen to you and Grace. Sienna’s eyes filled with tears.

Really? Really? Prophet confirmed. But there’s something you need to understand. This is temporary. The state will do an investigation, interview you, interview the Pattersons, review everything. Eventually, they’ll make a permanent placement decision. Rose’s house buys us time to build a case.

But it’s not the final answer,” Tank added gently. “Unless we can find a permanent placement that wants both of you, family, maybe, grandparents, aunts, uncles,” Sienna shook her head. Mom didn’t have family. She grew up in foster care, too. That’s how she knew the system was broken. She made me promise if anything happened to her. I’d keep Grace safe no matter what. Diesel’s phone buzzed.

A text from the charters group chat. Word had spread fast. Need anything? How many brothers you want on standby? He typed back. Standby for now. May need presence at courthouse tomorrow. We’ll update. More messages flooded in. Offers of money, resources, legal connections, safe houses, anything and everything. This was what brotherhood meant.

When one member made the call, everyone responded. Cara approached their table quietly. Sorry to interrupt, but there’s a man outside asking about a little girl with a backpack. Says he’s her foster father. Says she ran away with something that belongs to him. Every biker at the table tensed. Diesel stood slowly. Where is he? Parking lot.

He’s waiting by a gray minivan on the phone with someone. Hasn’t come inside yet. Diesel looked at Tank. Keep Sienna and Grace here. Don’t let her see him. He turned to Wrench and Profit with me. The three men walked outside into bright Sunday morning sunlight. The parking lot was half full.

families loading into cars, couples heading toward brunch spots. And there, leaning against a gray minivan, was a man in his 50s. Average height, thinning hair, wearing khakis and a polo shirt. He looked like any suburban dad, except for his eyes, cold, calculating, scanning the parking lot like a predator searching for prey. He was mid-con conversation on his phone.

Yeah, she’s around here somewhere. Little brat can’t have gotten far with a baby. I’ll find them and sort this out before. He looked up and saw three Hell’s Angels walking directly toward him. The phone call ended abruptly. Help you, gentlemen? Mr.

Patterson’s voice was cautious, but carried an edge of authority, like a man used to being in control. Diesel stopped 5 ft away, arms crossed. You looking for a little girl named Sienna? Patterson’s face showed surprise. Then quick calculation. Yes, actually. She’s my foster daughter. Ran away this morning. I’ve been worried sick. The lie came smooth practiced. She took her baby sister with her.

Dangerous situation. 10-year-old girl wandering around with an infant. You seen her? We have, Diesel said flatly. She’s safe, federal, and she’s not going anywhere with you. Patterson’s expression shifted, friendly concern melting into cold irritation.

I don’t know who you think you are, but Sienna is in my legal custody. That baby is my responsibility. You need to tell me where they are right now or I’m calling the police. Go ahead, Wrench said. Call them. We’ll wait. Patterson hesitated. His bluff called. Calling the police meant questions. Questions meant explaining why a 10-year-old felt the need to run away with her infant sister.

Questions meant potential investigations into his foster home. Look, Patterson said, changing tactics. I think there’s been a misunderstanding. Sienna’s a troubled kid. She’s been through trauma. Sometimes she makes up stories, gets confused about what’s really happening. Like when you tried to abandon her baby sister at the hospital last night. Prophet’s voice was quiet but sharp.

Patterson went pale. I don’t know what she told you, but she told us you drove to the hospital. Told the intake desk you found an abandoned baby. Tried to leave Grace there. That’s called child abandonment. Mr. Patterson, it’s a felony. Patterson’s face flushed red. That’s a lie. That kid is a liar.

You can’t believe anything she says. She’s manipulative always has been. You’re done talking. Diesel interrupted. His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried weight that made Patterson take an involuntary step back. Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to get in your van and drive away. You’re going to wait for child services to contact you.

And you’re going to pray that when they investigate, they don’t find enough evidence to charge you criminally. You can’t just take my foster kids. We’re not taking them. We’re protecting them. There’s a difference. Wrench pulled out his phone, showing Patterson the screen. My wife’s a family attorney. She’s already drafting an emergency petition.

By tomorrow morning, a judge will be reviewing Sienna’s testimony, witness statements, and evidence of attempted abandonment. You’ll be lucky if they don’t pull all your foster placements. Patterson looked between the three bikers, seemed to measure his options, and made a decision. Fine, keep the brat and the baby. See how long you last dealing with a screaming infant and a lying kid with trust issues.

The state doesn’t pay enough for that headache anyway. The mask was completely off. Now, this wasn’t a concerned foster parent. This was a man who saw children as income sources, problems to be managed, burdens to be disposed of when convenient. You should leave now, Diesel said quietly. Before I forget why we’re trying to do this the legal way, Patterson got in his van and drove away, tires kicking up gravel.

The three bikers stood in the parking lot, watching until he disappeared around the corner. Prophet pulled out his phone already dialing. I’m calling Rosa. Getting Sienna and Grace moved to the safe house today, not tomorrow. I don’t trust that guy to stay away. Inside the cafe, Tank had moved Sienna and Grace to an even more secluded corner, creating a fortress of protection with his presence.

Cara had brought warm towels for Grace, who’d woken and needed changing. She’d also brought more food for Sienna. A grilled cheese, fruit, milk delivered with maternal efficiency that made Sienna’s eyes water. When Diesel returned, Sienna looked up immediately. Was that him? Yeah. What did he say? Doesn’t matter what he said. What matters is you and Grace are safe and you’re going to a place where you’ll stay safe.

Within an hour, Rosa arrived at the cafe. She was 62, Puerto Rican, with silver hair pulled back and eyes that had seen every kind of trauma children could carry, she assessed Sienna and Grace in seconds, seeing past the dirt and exhaustion to the core of who they were. Scared kids who needed stability. “Hola, ama,” Rosa said gently, sitting beside Sienna. “I hear you’ve had a very hard few days.

Would you like to come to my house? It’s quiet, clean, safe, and I make very good eras. Kooo. Sienna looked at Diesel, seeking permission or reassurance or something. He nodded. Rose’s good people. Best foster parent in three counties. She’ll take care of you both until we sort this out permanently. Both. Sienna emphasized.

Both of us together. Together, Rosa confirmed. Always together. I don’t separate siblings. Not ever. The transition happened quickly. Rosa had brought a proper car seat for Grace, supplies Sienna hadn’t known existed, and a calm efficiency that came from decades of experience.

Within 20 minutes, both girls were loaded into Rose’s car, heading toward a house that would become their temporary sanctuary. Diesel and his brothers followed on their bikes. A protective escort that turned heads all the way across town. Rose’s house was modest but welcoming. A three-bedroom ranch with a fenced yard, colorful flowers and pots on the porch, and the smell of something cooking inside that made Sienna’s stomach growl despite having eaten an hour ago. The nursery was ready.

crib, changing table, rocking chair, everything organized with the precision of someone who knew exactly what a baby needed. Sienna’s room was next door, close enough to hear Grace if she cried. It had a real bed with clean sheets, a desk, a bookshelf filled with books. “You can decorate however you want,” Rosa said. “This is your space. I don’t go through your things.

I don’t lock doors. If you need something at 3:00 a.m., you come find me. Understood. Sienna nodded. Overwhelmed. Grace, as if sensing the shift to safety, fell asleep in Rose’s arms while being fed a bottle. Her tiny face finally relaxed. That night, the High Desert Charter held an emergency meeting.

23 members packed into the clubhouse, listening as Diesel laid out the situation. By the time he finished, the response was unanimous. Whatever it takes, Tank said. Legal fees, living expenses, whatever Rosa needs, we cover it. I’ll coordinate with Sarah on the court case, Wrench added. Make sure everything’s documented properly. Prophet stood.

And I’ll make sure the Pattersons get investigated thoroughly. They’ve got three other foster kids. We need to know if Sienna and Grace are the only ones being mistreated. The investigation moved faster than anyone expected. When Child Protective Services interviewed the other foster children at the Patterson home, they found a pattern. Kids being treated as paycheck sources. Minimal care provided emotional neglect bordering on abuse.

One teenager reported being forced to babysit Grace for hours without compensation while the Pattersons went out. Another described being told if they caused problems, they’d be relocated just like the baby almost was. Within a week, all three remaining foster children were removed. The Patterson’s license was suspended pending criminal investigation. Mr.

Patterson hired a lawyer who immediately tried to spin the narrative. The children were lying, coordinating stories, being manipulated by outside influences, but the evidence was overwhelming. Hospital security footage showed Mr. Patterson at the intake desk claiming he’d found an abandoned infant. His own words captured on recording, “I found this baby in the parking lot.

No idea who she belongs to. You should take her.” Combined with Sienna’s testimony, the timeline of events, and statements from the other foster children, the case built itself. The district attorney charged him with attempted child abandonment, neglect, and fraud against the state foster system. His wife faced charges as an accomplice.

The trial wouldn’t happen for months, but neither would be fostering children ever again. Meanwhile, Sienna thrived at Rose’s house in ways that broke and healed hearts simultaneously. She’d been so malnourished that gaining weight was noticeable within 2 weeks.

She’d been so starved for affection that the first time Rosa hugged her good night, she cried for an hour. She’d been so afraid of being separated from Grace that she checked on her sister every few hours for the first month just to make sure she was still there. 3 months later, the custody hearing took place.

Sarah had built an airtight case for sibling preservation, Rose’s home as permanent placement and legal adoption if no biological family came forward. The judge, a woman in her 60s who’d seen too many siblings separated by a broken system, listened to every word. Sienna testified at 11 now, having had months of stability and therapy. She spoke clearly about her mother’s death, the Patterson home, the attempted abandonment, and the bikers who’d saved her and grace when the system had failed them.

“They didn’t have to help us,” Sienna said, looking directly at the judge. They could have called the police and walked away, but they didn’t. They stayed. They protected us. They made sure we stayed together. The judge looked at Diesel and the five other Hell’s Angels sitting in the courtroom gallery. Mr. Hayes, you and your associates went to considerable effort for children you’d never met. Why? Diesel stood.

Because it was the right thing to do your honor. Because those girls deserved better than what they’d gotten. Because sometimes the system breaks down and regular people have to step up. The judge made her ruling. Rosa would become permanent guardian of both Sienna and Grace with a path to adoption if she chose.

The girls would remain together. The Pattersons would face criminal consequences, and a note would be entered in the record commending the intervention that had prevented a tragedy. As they left the courthouse, Sienna hugged Diesel so hard he could barely breathe. Thank you for everything, for listening when nobody else would. Diesel knelt down, same as he had that first day in the cafe.

You saved yourself, kid. You were brave enough to ask for help. We just made sure you got it. Two years later, Sienna stood in Rose’s kitchen making Grace’s birthday cake. The terrible lopsided kind that 13-year-olds make with love instead of skill.

Grace, now two and a half, sat in her high chair, babbling happily, completely unaware of how close she’d come to being abandoned, separated, lost in a system that might never have reunited her with her sister. Rosa had officially adopted both girls 6 months prior.

Their last name was now Rodriguez, and their house was filled with the kind of chaos that comes from a toddler learning independence and a teenager learning she was allowed to be a kid again. The high desert charter still checked in regularly. Diesel stopped by every few weeks, usually bringing something ridiculous. A stuffed animal bigger than Grace. Books for Sienna. Once a motorcycle helmet for when you’re old enough, but not for at least 5 more years.

the cafe where everything started hung a photo behind the counter. Diesel and Sienna on adoption day, both grinning, both understanding how close they’d come to a very different ending. And sometimes on quiet Sunday mornings, Sienna would stand in that cafe and remember, remember what it felt like to be rejected by every table. Remember the desperation of carrying her baby sister in a backpack.

Remember the moment a scarred biker in a leather vest said, “Yeah, have a seat.” and changed everything. She’d learned something important that day. Family isn’t always blood. Sometimes it’s the stranger who listens when everyone else looks away. Sometimes it’s a woman named Rosa who knows what sibling separation feels like. Sometimes it’s a brotherhood of bikers who understand that protecting the vulnerable isn’t optional. It’s sacred.

Seven words changed two lives forever. Can I share this table? Because one man said yes when everyone else said no. Because he listened instead of judging. Because he acted instead of looking away. Subscribe if you believe every child deserves someone who will fight for them. Share if you know what it’s like to be invisible until someone finally sees you. Comment where you’re watching from.