That sounds simple now, but it took me almost an hour to find the courage.
I sat in my garage that evening with my phone on the workbench, staring at the number she had written on the back of a diner receipt. Outside, the sun was dropping behind a row of old houses, and my motorcycle was still warm from the ride.
I kept thinking about the way Tucker had reached across the table.
Seven dollars and forty cents.
A boy who should have been worrying about cartoons, playgrounds, and whether his mother would let him have another cookie was trying to hire strangers to save his life.
I had seen children become frightened by illness before.
What made Tucker different was the way he tried to turn fear into a plan.
Sarah had done that too.
During one of her hospital stays, she had asked me whether I could build a machine to carry all the bad medicine out of her body. She knew I fixed motorcycles, so she assumed I might be able to repair anything with enough time and the right tools.
I told her doctors understood things I didn't.
She frowned and said, “Then maybe you should learn.”
I had laughed.
She hadn't.
She believed her father could do anything.
Losing her forced me to live with the knowledge that love, strength, and determination could not control every outcome.
Now Tucker had looked at me with that same faith.
I was terrified of failing him.
My phone rang before I could call.
It was Ron.
“You still staring at that number?”
I looked toward the receiver.
“How'd you know?”
“Because I know you.”
I sighed.
“I'm thinking.”
“That's usually where you get yourself into trouble.”
I managed a smile.
Ron grew serious.
“Listen. We don't have to turn this into some big performance. We can start by asking the mother what she actually needs.”
I leaned back.
“I don't want to make her feel like a charity case.”
“Then don't.”
He paused.
“Treat her like a person who knows her own life.”
That was Ron.
He looked like a man who solved every problem with his fists.
In reality, he'd spent twenty years repairing trucks, raising three daughters, and helping his wife care for her aging mother.
He knew that people didn't always need rescuing.
Sometimes they needed someone reliable enough to show up when asked.
I looked at Angie's number again.
“I'm going to call.”
“Good.”
“And Ron?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
He was quiet for a moment.
Then he said, “You'd do it for one of mine.”
I swallowed.
“Yeah.”
“So quit thanking me.”