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The gas station clock read 11:47 PM when eight-year-old Tommy Martinez walked through the automatic doors, his small frame trembling in clothes two sizes too big. His face was streaked with tears he'd tried to wipe away, his sneakers worn thin at the edges, and clutched in his right hand was a crumpled five-dollar bill—everything he had in the world. Before we jump back in, tell us where you're tuning in from, and if this story touches you, make sure you're subscribed—because tomorrow, I've saved something extra special for you! Behind the counter, a clerk barely looked up from his phone. In the corner booth, three truckers nursed coffee and complained about delivery schedules. And at the far end of the store, filling up on energy drinks before a long night ride, stood a man whose presence seemed to fill the entire space. Tank Morrison was six-foot-four with arms like tree trunks and a gray beard that reached halfway down his chest. The leather vest he wore was decorated with patches that told stories most people couldn't read, but the one that mattered most was emblazoned across his back: Road Wolves MC, President. To most people walking into that gas station, Tank looked like trouble. But to one desperate little boy, he was about to become salvation.