Tucker had somehow discovered that simply saying “Ron” in a disappointed voice was more effective than any threat.
“Fine, boss,” Ron said. “Come look.”
We carried the pretend motorcycle into the living room.
Angie had cleared a space near the window.
Tucker approached slowly.
He touched the handlebars.
Then he pressed the little horn.
Squeak.
His laughter filled the apartment.
Ron shook his head.
“I should've made that thing quieter.”
Tucker pressed it again.
Squeak.
I grinned.
“Too late now.”
Then I handed him the tiny leather vest.
He stared.
For a moment, he didn't seem to understand what it was.
Then his face changed.
“It's like yours.”
I nodded.
“Sure is.”
He looked at Ron.
“And yours.”
Ron smiled.
“Yep.”
Tucker carefully touched the patch.
Team Tucker.
Then he turned the vest around and examined the little white star.
He remembered it from the video call.
“Is this still for your person in heaven?”
I swallowed.
“Yeah, buddy.”
He nodded.
Then he held the vest toward Angie.
“Can you help me put it on?”
She smiled through tears.
“Of course.”
She slipped it gently over his shoulders.
It hung a little loosely.
Ron had intentionally made it large enough for him to grow.
Tucker stood before the mirror beside the living room door.
He looked down at the patches.
Then he squared his shoulders.
He tried to make his face stern.
I laughed.
“That's a pretty serious biker.”
He nodded.
“I'm in charge.”
Ron folded his arms.
“Of what?”
Tucker looked around.
Then he announced, “Everything.”
We all laughed.
For the next twenty minutes, he sat on the stationary pretend motorcycle, pressing the horn and giving us instructions about imaginary traffic.
He informed Ron that speeding was not allowed.
He told me I needed to wear a helmet.
Then he declared that his mother was the boss of the entire road because she knew where the grocery store was.
Angie laughed so hard she had to sit down.
I watched her.
The exhaustion was still there.
The worry remained.
But for a little while, she was laughing like an ordinary mother watching her son play.
That mattered.
More than the fundraiser total.
More than the crowd of motorcycles.
More than the photographs people posted afterward.
It mattered that Tucker could spend an afternoon pretending to be a biker instead of thinking about cancer.
And it mattered that Angie could enjoy watching him without immediately worrying about the next appointment.
When Tucker grew tired, Angie helped him back to the sofa.
I sat on the floor beside him.
He looked at me.
“Bear?”
“Yeah?”