For nearly 15 years, I’ve worked the night shift at Ed’s Truck Stop. One rainy night, an older man came in—quiet, thin, with a worn face. He ordered only pie and milk and sat alone by the window.

Then trouble rolled in—three leather-clad bikers loud and cruel. They mocked the old man, stubbed a cigarette in his pie, drank and spit back his milk, and smashed his plate. I expected him to lash out, but he simply placed two bills on the counter, straightened his jacket, and left silently.

The bikers laughed until I leaned in and whispered, “Not much of a truck driver either.” Confused, they looked outside.

Their expensive bikes were wrecked—crushed under the tires of a departing 18-wheeler. The old man’s truck.

They ran into the rain, stunned. The diner fell quiet, a mix of awe and justice in the air. A regular raised his mug and said, “Here’s to the ones who don’t waste their breath.”

Some nights, karma drives an eighteen-wheeler.