“I know.”
“But…”
She could not finish.
Grizzly understood.
“I’m coming over.”
“You don't have to.”
“I know.”
He hung up.
Big Ron stared.
“Well?”
Grizzly looked toward him.
“Monster's getting smaller.”
Big Ron shouted so loudly a mechanic dropped a wrench.
That evening, fifteen motorcycles appeared outside Angie’s apartment.
No fundraising.
No cameras.
No event.
Just people bringing pizza.
Tucker came outside wearing his little vest.
He raised both arms.
“MY TEAM!”
Neighbors cheered from balconies.
The celebration lasted forty minutes because Tucker became tired.
Everyone left immediately when Angie asked.
That restraint mattered as much as showing up.
The original seven dollars and forty cents remained in a small plastic box in Tucker’s bedroom.
Grizzly had forgotten about it.
Tucker had not.
Nearly a year after their first meeting, Tucker carried the box to another hospital appointment.
Grizzly had come because Angie was stuck dealing with insurance paperwork downstairs.
Tucker opened it.
Coins.
Bills.
Exactly as before.
“You can have it.”
Grizzly looked suspicious.
“Why?”
“Job.”
“What job?”
“Cancer.”
Grizzly crossed his arms.
“I don't remember finishing.”
“Doctors say it's way smaller.”
“Smaller isn't gone.”
Tucker considered.
“Half payment?”
Grizzly laughed.
“No.”
Tucker pushed the box toward him.
“Take it.”
“Why?”
“Because you helped.”
Grizzly looked at him.
“We didn't treat the cancer.”
“I know.”
“Doctors did.”
“I know.”
“Your mom did more work than anybody.”
“I know.”
“And you did the hardest part.”
Tucker became impatient.
“I know.”
“Then keep your money.”
Tucker stared.
“For what?”
Grizzly thought.
“Motorcycle.”
Tucker’s eyes widened.
“A real one?”
“When you're old enough.”
“How old?”
“Forty.”
“BEAR.”
“Thirty-five.”
Tucker looked betrayed.
Grizzly smiled.
Tucker selected one quarter.
Held it out.
“Take one.”
“Why?”
“Contract.”
Grizzly remembered the diner.
The first quarter.
You need one so you have to come back.
He accepted.
“Okay.”
Tucker closed the box.
“Now you still work for me.”
Grizzly smiled.
“Apparently forever.”
Years passed.
Tucker grew.
Cancer stopped being the first word people used when describing him.
That might have been the greatest victory.
At eight, he loved baseball badly.
At nine, dinosaurs disappeared and motorcycles replaced them.
At ten, he became obsessed with engines.
At eleven, Grizzly taught him how carburetors worked using an old lawn mower because Angie refused to allow anything faster.
At twelve, Tucker started volunteering at hospital charity events.