Pulling up to the liquor store after a long day photographing a biker event, Jameson was calling my name. Irish blood, what can I say. Vice purchased, pleasantries given, I stepped outside—and there he was. An ominous figure backlit by the sinking sun. Mutton chops, skull tattoos, denim armor. Intimidating by any stretch, but the light was painting him like a god on his iron chariot. Before I could even think, impulsive Ethan took over. “Bro, you look f***in dope on that bike. Mind if I snap a few photos?” Without hesitation, he nodded. Calm, confident, chill—no ego, no hesitation. Cameras can intimidate people, but he was unshaken. I took a few shots and struck up a conversation. I’ve always loved people’s stories. Who are you? How are you? What are you? So I asked, “How are you, bro?” He said, “I’m okay, man… but my pet crow just died.” I stopped for a second. This tattooed biker, who looked like he could bend an iron bar, had a pet crow? Now I was hooked. “Wait, what?! A pet crow? That’s wild—tell me more. ”He smiled, eyes softening. “I found her out of the nest and raised her for a long time. I think a cat got her.” For a man built like that, his empathy floored me. I told him, “Man, I just lost my pet chicken. She was an amazing little thing. RIP Georgia.” And there we were—two hard-looking dudes standing in the glow of a liquor store parking lot, connecting over the loss of our birds. I don’t know why life keeps crossing my path with these unexpected souls, but I’m all for it.