“That’s different.”
“He owns a garage.”
“Does he kill people?”
Ellen nearly choked.
“No.”
“Why does he dress like that?”
“Because he likes motorcycles.”
“That vest looks criminal.”
Ellen covered her mouth.
Lily’s mother laughed from across the room for the first time in days.
Lily almost smiled.
“Do I have to talk?”
“No.”
“Can he stand by door?”
“Yes.”
“Can he leave if I say?”
“Immediately.”
Lily thought.
“Okay.”
Marcus Hale received the call at 6:12 that evening.
He was closing Hale Ironworks Motorcycle Repair.
At fifty-nine, he no longer handled every engine personally.
He claimed this was because he had employees.
Everyone who knew him understood his left hand had developed a slight tremor after the aneurysm, and his back complained about long hours over lifts.
He still worked more than anyone wanted.
The phone rang while he was wiping down a workbench.
“Marcus?”
“Ellen?”
He recognized voice after almost seven years.
“That’s concerning.”
She laughed.
“You remember me?”
“You stabbed me with needles at three in morning.”
“I checked your IV.”
“Same thing.”
“I need a favor.”
“No.”
“I haven’t asked.”
“Hospital favors involve paperwork.”
“They do.”
“No.”
“It’s a seven-year-old girl.”
Marcus stopped.
Ellen told him.
Not every medical detail.
Enough.
Third brain surgery.
Tumor removed.
Forty-three staples.
Hiding.
Pink hoodie.
Monster.
Marcus sat slowly on a stool.
When Ellen finished, he said nothing.
“Marcus?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t have to.”
“What time?”
“Tomorrow afternoon.”
“Does she want me there?”
“She said yes.”
“That is not what I asked.”
Ellen understood.
“She agreed after I told her about you.”
“Did her mother agree?”
“Yes.”
“Doctors?”
“Volunteer services is checking your clearance.”
“Fine.”
Marcus looked toward a locker at the back of the garage.
He had not opened it in months.
“What’s her name?”
“Lily.”
“Pink hoodie?”
“Yes.”
He rubbed his beard.
“Okay.”
After hanging up, he opened the locker.
Inside were spare riding gloves, rain gear, an old helmet, and a folded pale-pink sweatshirt.
Not the same one his daughter had given him after surgery.
That original had worn through at the cuffs.
Leah had replaced it three years later as a joke.
Across the chest it read in tiny black letters:
STILL HERE.
Marcus pulled it out.
An employee named Roy saw.
“No.”
Marcus looked.
“What?”
“You’re wearing that?”
“Apparently.”
Roy grinned.
“Hospital?”
Marcus glared.
Roy’s grin disappeared.
“Sorry.”
Marcus softened.
“Kid.”
Roy nodded.