So I answered honestly.
“I don't know.”
Angie closed her eyes.
I continued.
“I wish I did.”
Her shoulders began shaking.
I moved my chair closer.
“Your doctors are doing the medical work. You're doing everything a mother can do. And whatever happens next, you shouldn't have to carry the rest alone.”
She covered her face.
“I can't lose him.”
I felt tears gathering in my own eyes.
“I know.”
She looked at me.
“You really do, don't you?”
I nodded.
“Yeah.”
For several minutes, she cried.
I didn't tell her to be strong.
I didn't say everything would be fine.
I just sat beside her while Tucker slept.
Eventually, she reached for the sandwich.
She ate a few bites.
Then she looked at me.
“Are you scared to get close to him?”
I froze.
She noticed.
“I'm sorry. I shouldn't ask.”
“No.”
I took a breath.
“It's a fair question.”
I looked toward Tucker.
His small hands rested on the blanket.
His breathing was steady.
The toy motorcycle sat beside his pillow.
I thought about Sarah.
Then I looked back at Angie.
“Terrified.”
She nodded slowly.
I continued.
“Every time I come here, part of me remembers losing my daughter. I keep thinking I should protect myself by staying away.”
Angie looked down.
“Then why don't you?”
I swallowed.
“Because Tucker doesn't deserve to lose somebody else just because I'm afraid of being hurt.”
She began crying again.
I looked toward the boy.
“And because I think love is supposed to cost us something.”
Angie studied me.
I continued.
“Not money. Not favors. But the willingness to care even when we can't control what happens.”
She reached across the table and squeezed my hand.
Neither of us spoke for a long time.
The next morning, the Iron Ghosts gathered at the fairground.
I arrived shortly after sunrise.
I expected a few dozen motorcycles.
Instead, the parking area was already filling.
Rows of chrome and painted steel stretched along the gravel.
Black cruisers.
Red touring motorcycles.
Old restored machines.
Brand-new bikes with polished windshields.
Riders arrived wearing leather jackets, denim vests, helmets, and patches from clubs I hadn't seen in years.
Some came alone.
Others arrived with spouses or friends.
By eight o'clock, we had more than two hundred motorcycles.
By nine, the number had passed three hundred.
Ron stood beside me holding a clipboard.
His mouth was open.
“Well,” he muttered.
I looked at him.
“What?”
He gestured toward the parking area.
“Think we may have underestimated the turnout.”
I laughed.
“Just a little.”
He checked the registration count.
Then he looked up.