“You’re not gonna ask why?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
He looked back.
“Because you said you don’t want it.”
The girl stared.
Adults usually treated children’s refusal as an opening negotiation.
The Biker did not.
He walked away.
Half an hour later, the girl approached him.
“You have anything that isn’t pink?”
He smiled.
“Most things in the world.”
She almost smiled.
The Cashier found a sketchbook and charcoal set.
The girl took it.
No thank-you.
The Biker did not require one.
Months later, a drawing arrived at his house.
The Biker standing beside twelve doll boxes.
His daughter represented as a small light behind him.
No note.
He framed it.
At sixty-seven, the Biker had a heart attack.
Not dramatic.
He was changing oil in his garage.
Pain.
Sweat.
Denial.
The Vice President happened to stop by.
That probably saved him.
At the hospital, the Cashier arrived before sunrise.
The Biker opened one eye.
“You look terrible.”
She laughed and cried.
“You’re in intensive care.”
“That doesn’t answer me.”
“How are you?”
“Apparently stubborn.”
The Nurse Biker, now retired from hospital work but still incapable of allowing anyone else to interpret medical information, stood at the foot of the bed.
“You need bypass surgery.”
The Biker stared.
“No.”
The Nurse crossed her arms.
The Cashier said, “That wasn’t a question.”
The Biker looked between them.
“Both of you are irritating.”
“Good.”
Surgery went well.
Recovery did not suit him.
He hated restrictions.
Could not lift.
Could not ride.
Could not pretend age was something happening only to other people.
The December birthday approached.
He was still not cleared for long motorcycle travel.
The Cashier assumed they would skip a year.
The Biker looked personally insulted.
“No.”
“You had your chest cut open.”
“Yes.”
“Six weeks ago.”
“Yes.”
“You can’t even lift twelve dolls.”
“Then somebody else lifts.”
The Cashier smiled.
That was growth.
Twenty years earlier, he would rather have failed than ask.
Now the Cashier drove.
The Vice President carried boxes.
The Biker walked into the foster home using a cane.
The girls applauded.
He immediately scowled.
“No speeches.”
They laughed.
One little girl ran forward and hugged his leg.
The Biker steadied himself.
Then hugged her back.
That night, after returning home, he sat at his kitchen table with the old photograph.
The Cashier noticed.
“Thinking?”
“Unfortunately.”
She poured coffee.
Decaf.
He complained.
She ignored him.
After a while he asked:
“What happens when I can’t do it?”
The Cashier knew what he meant.
The dolls.