Angie answered simply:
“Stage three.”
Tucker climbed onto the empty chair beside Big Ron.
“My medicine makes me throw up.”
Big Ron nodded solemnly.
“Bad medicine does that sometimes.”
“Do bikers throw up?”
“All the time.”
Grizzly stared.
Big Ron shrugged.
“Kid asked.”
Tucker looked fascinated.
“From cancer?”
“Usually bad hot dogs.”
Angie laughed again.
Something about the bikers made honesty possible without making the afternoon heavier.
Grizzly folded Tucker’s drawing carefully.
“Can I keep this?”
Tucker shook his head.
“No.”
Grizzly handed it back immediately.
Tucker folded it.
“It's mine.”
“Fair.”
“But I can draw you one.”
Grizzly smiled.
“Deal.”
The diner waitress came outside carrying a fresh coffee pot.
She stopped when she saw Tucker sitting among the bikers.
Angie looked embarrassed again.
Grizzly raised one hand.
“We’re ordering.”
Twenty minutes later, Tucker sat between Grizzly and Big Ron eating half a pancake.
The bikers had already eaten lunch.
They ordered breakfast anyway because Tucker wanted pancakes.
Angie tried to pay.
Five men said no simultaneously.
She surrendered.
For forty minutes, nobody discussed cancer.
Tucker asked about motorcycles.
He wanted to know why exhaust pipes were loud.
Why bikers wore leather.
Whether motorcycles could go faster than police cars.
Grizzly refused to answer that one with a deputy’s cruiser visible near the highway.
Tucker asked whether tattoos hurt.
Mason said yes.
Big Ron said no.
Tucker concluded Mason was less tough than Big Ron.
Mason regretted participating.
Angie watched.
She had not seen Tucker this animated in days.
Chemotherapy had left him exhausted.
Food tasted strange.
His appetite came and went.
Some mornings he could barely get out of bed.
Today he sat among five strangers arguing about which motorcycle looked fastest.
For almost an hour, he was simply five.
When they finally walked toward the car, Grizzly gave Angie a folded piece of paper.
His phone number.
Big Ron’s.
Dean’s.
The club president’s.
Angie looked at it.
“You don't have to do this.”
“I know.”
“We're okay.”
Grizzly recognized the lie.
People said they were okay when they meant they were functioning.
He nodded.
“Good.”
Then he pointed at the paper.
“Keep it anyway.”
“What would I call for?”
“Ride to treatment.”
“Flat tire.”
“Someone to sit with him.”
“Someone to sit with you.”
Angie looked at him sharply.
Grizzly shrugged.
“Parents get sick too.”
Her eyes filled.
She folded the paper.
“Thank you.”
Tucker climbed into the car.
Then immediately climbed back out.
He ran toward Grizzly.
“Bear!”
Grizzly turned.
Tucker held out one quarter.
“You forgot payment.”
Grizzly looked at it.
“I thought we returned the contract.”
Tucker shook his head.
“You need one.”
“Why?”
“So you have to come back.”
Grizzly stared at the quarter.
Then accepted it.
“Okay.”