“Want to see it?”
The father interrupted.
“He can’t ride a motorcycle.”
Cole nodded.
“Okay.”
No disappointment.
No pressure.
The child looked down.
Cole continued:
“Want to touch one?”
The child looked up again.
The father hesitated.
Then nodded.
Outside, Cole rolled the child close to the stationary demonstration rig.
No transfer.
No engine.
The boy touched the black tank.
His fingers traced the paint.
“Cool.”
Cole smiled.
“That’s enough?”
The boy thought.
“Can you make noise?”
Cole sighed.
From behind him Rachel immediately shouted:
“VROOM!”
Ten bikers joined.
Cole closed his eyes.
A decade.
No dignity left.
The child laughed.
Rachel looked toward Cole.
He looked back.
For one impossible fraction of a second, the room held everyone.
Sophie.
Ellie.
The present child.
Those still alive.
Those gone.
Furniture.
Space for other things.
Later that evening, after families left, Cole sat alone beside the original sidecar.
Rachel joined him.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Good day?”
“Yes.”
“Those can hurt too.”
Cole nodded.
She sat beside him.
After a while he said:
“Do you remember what Sophie said?”
Rachel looked toward him.
“About Saturdays?”
“Yes.”
“Daddy always thinks we have more Saturdays.”
Rachel’s eyes filled.
Cole smiled faintly.
“She was right.”
“So was Ellie.”
“About what?”
“Not building this because children are dying.”
“Because they’re alive.”
Cole looked toward the empty rehabilitation room.
“People still ask me whether I’d go back and give Sophie the ride.”
Rachel waited.
“Would you?”
Cole thought for a long time.
“Yes.”
Then:
“But I’d also go back and stop punishing myself for not knowing time was short.”
Rachel nodded.
“That’s harder.”
“Yeah.”
He touched the GO ON tattoo across his knuckles.
Years earlier, the words had been something a Navy corpsman told wounded men.
Stay conscious.
Keep moving.
Go on.
After Sophie, they became an accusation.
After Ellie, they became permission.
Not forget.
Not replace.
Go on.
Cole stood.
Rachel did too.
They walked toward the exit.
Before turning off the lights, Cole looked back at the pink seat inside the adaptive sidecar.
The upholstery had been replaced twice.