“No.”
“Want five minutes?”
“Yes.”
The Biker leaned against the car.
Did not rush her.
After a while she opened the door.
They carried the dolls toward the porch.
Before they reached it, the door opened.
The Foster Home Director stepped outside.
A woman in her fifties.
Short dark hair.
Sweater decorated with tiny Christmas lights.
The Biker smiled.
“You still wear those terrible sweaters.”
The Director smiled.
“You still insult people carrying gifts.”
They hugged.
The Cashier stopped on the bottom step.
The Director noticed.
Her expression shifted.
“Can I help you?”
The Cashier could not speak.
The Biker answered gently.
“She lived here.”
The Director’s eyes widened.
“When?”
The Cashier told her.
Recognition did not come.
The Director had not worked there then.
The Cashier was relieved and disappointed simultaneously.
“I got one of the dolls.”
The Director looked toward the Biker.
Then back.
“One of the birthday dolls?”
The Cashier nodded.
The Director immediately understood.
“You were from the first year.”
“I think so.”
The Director came down the steps.
“Then you’re part of the reason this still happens.”
The Cashier stared.
“What?”
The Director smiled.
“The girls talked about those dolls for years.”
“Some of them came back.”
“Donated.”
“Volunteered.”
“Told other kids.”
The Biker looked uncomfortable with the attention.
The Director pointed at him.
“He never tells that part.”
The Cashier looked over.
The Biker shrugged.
“Not my story.”
The Director shook her head.
“Always says that.”
Inside, the house smelled like laundry detergent, tomato soup, and something cinnamon.
The Cashier almost cried again because the smell was different.
Good.
Different meant time had moved.
Twelve girls lived there.
Just like eighteen years earlier.
Ages six to fifteen.
The Director gathered them in the living room.
No speeches.
The Biker refused speeches.
He placed the dolls on a table.
The youngest girl gasped immediately.
Another girl, maybe fourteen, rolled her eyes with professional teenage disinterest.
The Biker looked at all of them.
“Those are for you.”
The six-year-old asked, “Which one?”
The Biker smiled.
“You choose.”
That was the rule.
Always.
No names on boxes.
No assigning based on age.
No adult deciding what a girl should like.
Choose.
The children approached carefully.
Then less carefully.
The younger ones compared dresses.
One picked the purple.
Another wanted the blue.
The Cashier watched.
Blue.
Her chest tightened.
A little girl around seven took the blue-dress princess.
Held the box against herself.
Exactly as the Cashier remembered doing.