“What's that?”
I froze.
Ron looked at me.
I stared at the star.
Then I answered.
“That's for somebody I miss.”
Tucker's expression softened.
“Are they in heaven?”
I swallowed.
“Yeah, buddy.”
He thought for a moment.
Then he said, “Maybe they can help from there.”
I closed my eyes.
For several seconds, I couldn't speak.
When I opened them, Tucker was still looking at me.
I smiled through tears.
“Maybe they can.”
Angie touched his shoulder.
He looked toward her.
Then back at me.
“Bear?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you tell all the bikers thank you?”
I nodded.
“Absolutely.”
He smiled.
“And tell them I'm gonna get big enough to ride with you.”
I laughed softly.
“Then you've got some growing to do.”
He nodded seriously.
“I'm working on it.”
The call ended a few minutes later because he needed to rest.
I lowered the phone.
Ron placed a hand on my shoulder.
For a while, we stood in silence.
Then he looked toward the crowd.
“Come on, brother.”
I nodded.
We walked toward the microphone.
I'd never been comfortable giving speeches.
My idea of public speaking was shouting directions across a garage.
But that afternoon, I stood before hundreds of riders and told them about a little boy who had offered us everything he owned.
I told them we couldn't cure him.
I told them we had no control over his medical future.
And I told them that their donations were helping with the daily burdens surrounding treatment, not purchasing a miracle.
Then I reached into my pocket.
I removed a small photocopy of Tucker's original drawing.
The black monster.
The red eyes.
The tiny stick figure.
I held it up.
“This is what the little guy thinks he's fighting.”
The crowd became quiet.
I continued.
“His doctors know the medical side of this fight better than any of us. His mother has been doing the work of ten people. But that kid walked up to our table because he didn't want to feel alone.”
I looked across the motorcycles.
“And today, you all showed him he's not.”
My voice broke.
I lowered the paper.
For a moment, I couldn't continue.
Then a rider near the front raised his hand.
Another followed.
Then another.
Within seconds, hundreds of people were holding up their hands.
No shouting.
No cheering.
Just a silent promise.
I stared at them.
Then I looked toward the little white star on Ron's vest.
I thought about Sarah.
And for the first time in eight years, I felt something I hadn't expected ever to feel again.