“Never came home.”
The Cashier swallowed.
“And you came back the next year?”
The Biker looked confused.
“Of course.”
The Cashier stared.
How could anything be “of course” after that?
He seemed to understand the question on her face.
“She told me to.”
The promise.
If I ever can’t come with you.
Promise.
The Biker had spent eighteen years obeying a twelve-year-old.
The Director opened a cabinet.
Inside were boxes.
Letters.
Cards.
Photographs.
She pulled out one shoebox labeled with a year.
The Biker frowned.
“What’s that?”
“Things the girls left.”
“For you.”
His face changed.
“You never gave me these.”
“You never asked.”
He looked almost offended.
The Director smiled.
“You always run out before anyone can make you sentimental.”
The Cashier laughed.
The Biker grumbled.
The Director handed him the box.
He opened it.
Cards.
Crayon drawings.
Photos of girls holding dolls.
One note said:
I never had a toy nobody could take back before.
Another:
I named her Hope.
Another:
I gave mine to my little sister when I left because I wanted her to have something that stayed.
The Biker stopped reading.
Closed the box.
His hands trembled.
The Cashier sat beside him.
The Director left them alone.
For several minutes, neither spoke.
Then the Biker said:
“I thought I was doing this for my girl.”
The Cashier looked toward him.
“Maybe you were.”
He shook his head.
“I think she was doing it for me.”
The Cashier understood.
Every year the promise forced him to survive the birthday.
To leave the house.
To buy gifts.
To go somewhere children were alive and loud and impatient.
To carry grief into a place where it had something to do besides hurt.
The Daughter had built her father a reason to keep moving.
Maybe she knew.
Maybe she did not.
The Cashier smiled softly.
“Could be both.”
The Biker nodded.
They left after ten.
The girls had gone upstairs.
The blue-dress doll remained on the living-room couch beside its sleeping owner.
The Cashier stopped outside.
The rain had become heavier.
The Biker put on his helmet.
She looked at him.
“Can I ask something?”
“Sure.”
“Why cash?”
He laughed.
“That’s what made me think reseller.”
He looked embarrassed.
“I save all year.”
“Twenty dollars here.”
“Thirty.”
“Cash envelope.”
“Why not card?”
He shrugged.
“Feels like her birthday money.”
The Cashier smiled.
That made no financial sense.
Perfect emotional sense.
She looked toward the motorcycle.
“Will you be okay riding?”