The front bays were busy.
Engines.
Compressed air.
Classic rock.
Riders.
Then Cole stepped from the rear.
He wiped his hands.
“Mark didn’t tell me you were coming.”
“He doesn’t know.”
Cole looked suspicious.
“Family tradition?”
“Apparently.”
She smiled faintly.
Then saw the photograph.
It hung temporarily above the workbench while Cole reorganized the folder.
Sophie.
Red hair.
Gap-toothed grin.
Rachel stopped walking.
The color left her face.
Cole noticed.
“What?”
Rachel stared at the photograph.
“No.”
Cole followed her gaze.
Something in her expression frightened him.
“You know her?”
Rachel’s hand covered her mouth.
Cole became very still.
“Rachel.”
She walked closer to the photo.
Her eyes filled instantly.
“I know that little girl.”
Cole’s breath stopped.
Rachel turned toward him.
Eight years disappeared from her face.
“I was at Mission Children’s.”
Cole did not move.
Rachel continued.
“Respiratory therapy.”
“I worked nights.”
“Sophie Brennan.”
Cole gripped the edge of the workbench.
Rachel’s voice broke.
“She loved stickers.”
Cole stared.
“She hated grape popsicles.”
His face collapsed.
Rachel began crying.
“She told everybody her father rode the loudest motorcycle in North Carolina.”
Cole stepped backward.
The old shop seemed to tilt.
“Were you there?”
Rachel nodded.
“The last night.”
Cole closed his eyes.
He remembered that hallway.
Doctors.
Running.
A young woman in blue scrubs coming out of Sophie’s room with tears on her face.
He had not known her name.
He had not seen her clearly.
Everything that night existed through water.
Rachel whispered:
“I sat with her when they called you.”
Cole’s eyes opened.
“She asked whether you were coming.”
His breathing changed.
Rachel continued:
“I told her yes.”
“I didn’t know.”
“I just…”
She swallowed.
“I told her fathers always come when their little girls need them.”
Cole turned away.
Rachel immediately realized.
“Oh God.”
“I’m sorry.”
Cole braced both hands against the workbench.
“I got there eleven minutes after.”
“I know.”
Rachel cried harder.
“I saw you in the hallway.”
“You dropped your helmet.”
Cole remembered.
It had rolled beneath a chair.
He had never picked it up.
A nurse returned it weeks later.
Rachel looked toward Sophie’s photograph.
“She wasn’t alone.”