The little girl was no longer little.
She came too.
So did the young man.
That surprised the biker.
He had called him almost without thinking.
The young man stood near the doorway.
Unsure whether he belonged.
The biker looked toward him.
“Come in.”
He did.
The cat barely opened its eyes.
The young man stayed several feet away.
The young woman sat beside the biker.
She cried first.
Then the biker.
The veterinarian explained quietly.
The old cat was tired.
Pain increasing.
Nothing useful remained to fix.
The biker made the decision.
Afterward, the room felt impossibly empty.
The young man stared at the blanket.
“I don't deserve to be sad.”
The biker looked up sharply.
“Don't be stupid.”
He flinched.
The biker continued.
“Sadness isn't a reward.”
The young man looked toward him.
“You knew him because of the worst thing you did.”
“Yes.”
“You spent fifteen years knowing what that meant.”
The biker stood slowly.
His knees protested.
“You're allowed to be sad.”
The young man cried then.
Not dramatically.
Quietly.
The young woman hugged him.
The first time she ever did.
The biker looked away.
The cat's ashes were eventually placed beneath a tree behind the biker's house.
No elaborate marker.
A small stone.
The young woman brought a tiny Hello Kitty sticker.
The biker objected.
She put it there anyway.
It faded within a year.
That was fine.
Not everything needed permanence.
At sixty-eight, the biker finally sold the Harley.
His balance had become less reliable.
He hated admitting it.
The club knew before he did.
One afternoon, the largest rider—now gray and walking with a cane—said:
“You're going to kill yourself.”
“Probably.”
“Not funny.”
“No.”
“You dropping it at stop signs?”
“Once.”
“Twice.”
“Who told you?”
“Everybody.”
The biker eventually accepted reality.
The buyer was a man in his forties.
Responsible.
Experienced.
He examined service records.
Bodywork.
Chrome.
Then opened the side case.
He noticed the red streak.
“What is that?”
The biker stared.
“Paint.”
“I can probably remove it.”
“No.”
The buyer looked confused.
The biker smiled.
“Leave it.”
“Why?”
The old biker thought about explaining.
Nine-year-old girl.
Hello Kitty.
Five gallons of red paint.
Kitten.
Teenager.
Police.
Court.
Workshop.
Years.
A life.
Instead:
“Part of the bike.”
The buyer shrugged.
“Okay.”
The biker watched the Harley disappear down the road.
He expected grief.
He felt some.
Mostly gratitude.
Twelve years dreaming.
Fifteen years riding.
One red streak.
Enough.
The old club changed.
Younger members joined.
Older members retired.
The story of the painted Harley became mythology.
With mythology came exaggeration.
Some said the girl dumped ten gallons.
It was one bucket.
Some said the biker chased her across the parking lot.
He had taken maybe six steps.
Some said the teenager belonged to a gang.
False.