Team Tucker.
On the front was a little white star.
Ron had chosen the star because he remembered Sarah.
He didn't tell me until the vest was finished.
When he showed it to me, I stared at that small patch.
“What's the star for?”
Ron looked toward the floor.
“Thought maybe there ought to be room for somebody who's not here.”
I couldn't answer.
He held the vest out.
“If that's too much, I'll take it off.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
My voice trembled.
“Leave it.”
Ron nodded.
We stood in silence.
Then he handed me a needle.
“Good. Because my fingers are too big for this last stitch.”
I laughed.
He smiled.
And together, we finished the vest.
Three days before the charity ride, Angie called with bad news.
Tucker had developed a fever.
His medical team wanted him evaluated immediately because of his treatment history and the possibility that his immune defenses were low.
She was frightened.
He might have to remain in the hospital.
She said he was worried about missing the motorcycle event.
I listened carefully.
Then I answered, “The event isn't going anywhere.”
Angie sighed.
“He's been looking forward to it.”
“I know.”
“He's going to be heartbroken.”
I looked toward the little leather vest hanging beside my workbench.
“Then we'll explain that the first rule of Team Tucker is listening to the doctors.”
She laughed weakly.
“Good luck telling him that.”
I smiled.
“I've handled stubborn bikers for thirty years.”
“He's worse.”
“That's what Ron says.”
We agreed that Tucker's health came first.
The event would continue whether or not he could attend.
A few club members suggested postponing.
But the nonprofit had already coordinated volunteers and donations, and Angie preferred that the event proceed.
So we made a different plan.
If Tucker wasn't well enough to come, we'd bring the celebration to him later in a way his medical team approved.
We would not pressure him to attend.
We would not make him feel responsible for disappointing anyone.
And we would not allow the fundraising effort to become another burden on his mother.
On Friday evening, I visited the hospital.
Tucker was lying in bed beneath a dinosaur blanket.
He looked exhausted.
His little face was flushed, and he barely had enough energy to hold his toy motorcycle.
When he saw me, he tried to smile.
“Bear.”
I sat beside him.
“Hey, boss.”
He looked toward the door.
“Am I gonna miss the ride?”
I hesitated.
“Maybe.”
His eyes filled.
“But it's my ride.”
I nodded.
“I know.”
He looked down.
“That's not fair.”