Grizzly watched Tucker’s daughter playing with toy motorcycles.
“Your mom okay?”
“Great.”
“You?”
“Good.”
“Scans?”
“Annual.”
“Good?”
“So far.”
Grizzly nodded.
Silence settled comfortably.
Tucker looked toward him.
“You still carry Sarah?”
Grizzly touched his vest.
He wore it less often now.
But today he had.
Inside pocket.
Photograph.
“Yes.”
“Show me.”
Grizzly removed it.
The photograph had faded slightly.
Tucker stared.
Sarah remained eight forever.
Grizzly had aged around her.
Tucker whispered:
“Do you ever stop missing someone?”
Grizzly looked toward him.
“No.”
Tucker nodded.
“I figured.”
“But it changes.”
“How?”
Grizzly examined the photograph.
“At first missing them is the whole room.”
“You can't see anything else.”
“Later…”
He looked toward Tucker’s daughter.
“It becomes one chair.”
“Still there.”
“Always.”
“But there’s room for other people.”
Tucker swallowed.
“You told me once I didn't fix you.”
“You didn't.”
“Still true?”
“Absolutely.”
Grizzly smiled.
“You gave me another chair.”
Tucker looked away because crying in front of the old biker would encourage unbearable jokes.
Grizzly continued.
“I thought after Sarah died, loving anybody that much again would betray her.”
“Like replacing her.”
Tucker nodded.
“What changed?”
“You.”
Grizzly returned the photograph to his vest.
“You weren't my daughter.”
“You weren't supposed to be.”
“You were just some weird kid trying to hire criminals with lunch money.”
Tucker laughed.
“Bikers aren't criminals.”
“Some of us were very flexible about paperwork.”
“Bear.”
“Statute of limitations.”
Tucker laughed harder.
His daughter looked over.
“What’s funny?”
“Bear is old.”
The child nodded seriously.
“Yes.”
Grizzly looked wounded.
Tucker sat beside him.
The Harley gleamed beneath garage lights.
No blood.
No hospital bracelet.
No treatment schedules.
Just years.
Grizzly looked toward Tucker.
“You know what your seven dollars really bought?”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Tucker raised an eyebrow.
“Great story.”
Grizzly continued.
“You didn't need money.”
“You walked over.”
“You asked.”
“That was enough.”
Tucker looked down.
Grizzly placed one hand on his shoulder.
“People spend their whole lives trying not to need anybody.”
“You figured out at five that asking for help isn't weakness.”
“Wish I'd learned it that young.”
Tucker smiled faintly.
“So you should give the quarter back?”
“Absolutely not.”
“I knew it.”
“Interest.”