His arms were streaked with red paint from touching the motorcycle and child.
The girl had tried wiping her hands clean with paper towels.
It made everything worse.
Her palms were pink.
The biker looked at her Hello Kitty shirt.
A red handprint covered part of the cartoon face.
“You're going to be in trouble for that shirt.”
The girl looked down.
“Mom bought it last week.”
“Sorry.”
She looked at him.
“Your motorcycle is worse.”
The biker almost laughed.
“Fair.”
The grandmother sighed.
“I cannot apologize enough.”
The biker looked at her.
“For what?”
“The bike.”
“Your granddaughter didn't tie the kitten there.”
“She destroyed your motorcycle.”
“Paint can be fixed.”
The grandmother stared.
“That bike looks expensive.”
“It was.”
“Then—”
He held up one hand.
“The bike is metal.”
He looked toward the treatment-room door.
“That isn't.”
The little girl watched him.
The grandmother became quiet.
Twenty minutes later, a veterinarian came into the waiting area.
The child stood immediately.
“Is he alive?”
The veterinarian smiled.
“Yes.”
The girl burst into tears.
The biker had expected relief.
He had not expected his own eyes to burn.
The veterinarian continued.
“The leg is injured but circulation is still good.”
“Broken?” the biker asked.
“Small fracture and soft-tissue damage.”
“Can you fix it?”
“We believe so.”
The child's grandmother sat down heavily.
The girl wiped her face.
“Will he walk?”
“We think he has a good chance.”
“Will he be scared forever?”
The veterinarian paused.
That question was harder.
“Maybe for a while.”
The girl nodded.
“So somebody has to be nice longer.”
The biker looked away.
He did not know why that sentence bothered him.
The police called that evening.
The teenager had been identified.
Fifteen years old.
He lived less than two miles from the hardware store.
Officers had found him at home.
The biker stood in his garage while taking the call.
His ruined Harley had been transported there by a club member.
Red paint had begun drying across the motorcycle.
His friends stood around it in stunned silence.
One club member ran a finger near the edge of the tank without touching.
“Jesus.”
Another asked:
“Kid did this?”
“Little girl.”
“Why?”
The biker pointed toward the phone.
“Saved a kitten.”
The room changed.
Nobody joked.
The officer's voice came through the speaker.
“We found additional material on the teenager's devices.”
The biker stepped away from the others.
“What kind?”
“Videos.”
His stomach tightened.
“Animals?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“We're still reviewing.”
The officer paused.
“At least three previous incidents that appear staged.”
The biker closed his eyes.
“What happened?”
“Small animals placed in dangerous situations.”
“Killed?”
“We don't know yet.”
The biker gripped the workbench.
“Why?”
“Looks like online content.”
“Views?”
“Possibly.”
“Money?”
“Maybe some.”
The officer continued.