He looked at the road captain.
“Don’t leave.”
The road captain stared.
Again.
The same words from Main Street.
Not you.
Stay.
The old biker returned without speaking.
The boy’s mother laughed softly through tears.
Apparently this was becoming a habit.
They sat together until the sun moved across the clubhouse floor.
No one knew what came next.
That uncertainty became the beginning of everything.
The club canceled the remainder of the memorial ride.
That decision caused more argument than the road captain expected.
Not from the mother.
Not from the boy.
From younger riders who had already taken time off work, traveled from other states, or joined because the Route 22 memorial had become tradition.
One man said:
“We can still finish.”
The road captain looked toward the boy sitting at a picnic table outside with his mother.
“Why?”
The younger biker frowned.
“For him.”
“Who?”
“Our brother.”
The road captain shook his head.
“No.”
The man looked offended.
“No?”
“We’ve been riding the same road for nine years because none of us knew how to do anything else.”
“So?”
“So today his kid showed up.”
The road captain pointed toward the clubhouse.
“Our brother left us a recording saying he was changing his life.”
The younger biker crossed his arms.
“That doesn’t mean he’d want us to cancel.”
“You know what?”
“What?”
“I’m done deciding what dead men want when they actually left instructions.”
Silence.
The road captain continued:
“He told us not to turn his kid into him.”
“He told us not to treat his mother like she owed us access.”
“He told us things were going to change.”
The younger rider looked toward the parked motorcycles.
“So what do we do?”
The road captain shrugged.
“For once?”
“We ask.”
They walked toward the boy.
The road captain crouched.
“Kid.”
The boy looked up.
“What?”
“We usually finish the memorial ride at the hill.”
“I know.”
“You want us to?”
The child thought.
Not long.
“No.”
Several riders shifted.
The road captain nodded.
“What do you want?”
The boy looked toward his mother.
She said:
“You don’t have to decide for everyone.”
“I know.”
He looked at the bikers.
“Can we eat?”
The road captain blinked.
“What?”
“I’m hungry.”
His mother laughed.
The road captain looked toward forty-three riders waiting for some profound replacement ritual.
Then shouted:
“Lunch.”
A biker near the motorcycles said:
“That’s it?”
The captain answered:
“Apparently.”
The boy pointed.
“No onions.”
The road captain laughed.
“Understood.”
They ordered too much food.
Burgers.
Fries.
Chicken.
Sandwiches.
Soda.
Coffee.
Someone brought a cake from a grocery store even though nobody was celebrating a birthday.
The cake said:
WELCOME.
Nothing else.