“What?”
The Trucker walked away.
“Just saying.”
Annoying man.
The Biker sat in the hospital hallway.
The same thought stayed.
Call her.
His phone was in his vest.
He took it out.
His sister’s name remained near the top of recent contacts despite six weeks of silence.
He stared.
Put the phone away.
Took it out again.
The Waitress sat beside him.
“You gonna call somebody?”
“No.”
“You’ve been staring at that phone for four minutes.”
The Biker looked at her.
“You always this nosy?”
“Twenty-nine years serving coffee.”
She shrugged.
“Nosiness pays badly but consistently.”
The Biker almost smiled.
The Waitress looked toward the interview room.
“My husband used to say if you wait until you know the perfect thing to say, everybody dies before the conversation starts.”
“Cheerful.”
“He was an idiot.”
“Still right sometimes.”
The Biker looked at the phone.
The Waitress stood.
“I’m getting vending-machine chips.”
She walked away.
The Biker pressed call.
His sister answered on the third ring.
Video.
Her face appeared.
Short silver hair.
Glasses.
Sleepy expression.
Then surprise.
She signed immediately.
YOU ALIVE?
The Biker smiled.
BARELY.
Her eyes narrowed.
WHERE ARE YOU?
HOSPITAL.
Alarm.
He raised one hand.
I AM FINE.
She waited.
The Biker did not know how to explain.
So he started with the truth.
A DEAF GIRL NEEDED HELP TONIGHT.
His sister’s expression changed.
He told the story.
Not every detail.
Enough.
When he reached the silent fingers beneath the table, his hands began shaking.
His sister watched.
When he finished, she remained still for a long moment.
Then signed:
YOU SAW HER.
The same words the child had used.
The Biker nodded.
His sister looked away.
Then back.
GOOD.
He swallowed.
I ALMOST MISSED IT.
BUT YOU DIDN’T.
Silence.
The Biker’s hands lowered.
Then he forced them up again.
I HAVE MISSED OTHER THINGS.
His sister understood.
She did not rescue him from the apology.
Good sisters rarely do.
He signed:
I AM SORRY I KEEP DISAPPEARING.
Her face tightened.
YOU DO.
He nodded.
I KNOW.