“Four hundred and twelve riders.”
I stared.
“What?”
He grinned.
“Four hundred and twelve.”
I looked across the fairground.
People were arriving with donations, gift cards, and supplies for the nonprofit.
A local bakery had delivered trays of pastries.
Volunteers were setting up water stations.
Several families had come simply to support the event.
One woman brought a handmade quilt.
Another donated a restored bicycle for the benefit auction.
A retired firefighter offered a set of new children's books.
And near the registration table stood a large cardboard sign decorated with a little boy's drawing of a black monster surrounded by motorcycles.
Tucker's monster.
Someone had enlarged the drawing with Angie's permission.
Above it, the organizers had written:
No Child Fights Alone.
I stood staring at it.
My throat tightened.
Ron came beside me.
“Pretty good turnout, huh?”
I nodded.
“Yeah.”
He looked toward the crowd.
“Never thought I'd see this many people show up for a kid they'd never met.”
I watched a young couple hand a donation to the nonprofit volunteer.
A man with one leg approached on a modified motorcycle.
A retired mechanic opened his wallet and quietly gave more than he could comfortably afford.
A mother brought her two daughters to help serve sandwiches.
I thought about Tucker standing beside the diner table with his coins.
Seven dollars and forty cents.
He had no idea what he'd started.
By the time the ride departed, the number of registered riders had grown to more than four hundred and fifty.
The group traveled in organized sections along the approved route.
I rode near the front.
Ron followed behind.
The air was cool.
The sky was clear.
And for the first time in years, I wasn't riding to escape a memory.
I was riding toward something.
At the first long stretch of highway, I looked in the mirror.
Motorcycles extended behind us as far as I could see.
Dozens.
Then hundreds.
Each rider represented someone who had heard about a little boy trying to fight cancer with seven dollars and forty cents and decided to help.
I felt tears gathering beneath my sunglasses.
I thought about Sarah.
She would have loved the sight.
She used to stand at the front window whenever our club gathered outside the house.
She counted motorcycles as they arrived.
Then she'd run to the door and ask whether she could inspect them.
Her favorite was Ron's enormous blue touring bike.
She said it looked like a spaceship.
Now hundreds of engines filled the highway.
I imagined her standing beside Tucker, pointing at them.