“Cool.”
Once the room was finished, everyone hugged Lily.
Then Bear lingered.
She looked at him.
“You have to go.”
“I know.”
“You’re not staying in the parking lot.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“You researched hotels.”
Bear looked offended.
“People need accommodation.”
“Go home.”
He sighed.
Then hugged her.
“Call.”
“I will.”
“If anything—”
“I know.”
“If somebody—”
“I know.”
“If your car—”
“Bear.”
He stopped.
Lily smiled.
“I know where to find you.”
That sentence ended the argument.
He left.
On the ride home, Michael pulled alongside Bear at a traffic light.
Helmet visor up.
“You okay?”
Bear nodded.
“Fine.”
Michael laughed.
Bear gave him a rude gesture.
The light changed.
They rode.
Years passed.
The original twelve became fewer.
Age.
Illness.
Moves.
Dave stopped riding after knee replacement but still arrived in his truck.
Tommy sold his touring bike and bought a smaller one he claimed was “temporary.”
Nobody believed him.
Bear’s hair turned almost completely white.
Michael’s too.
Rachel kept photographs.
Thousands.
Lily graduated college.
Then physical-therapy school.
Nobody was surprised.
At twenty-six, she returned to Columbus and took a position at a rehabilitation center specializing in children with mobility disorders.
Her first week, Bear visited.
Uninvited.
Of course.
He sat in the waiting room watching children work with braces, walkers, wheelchairs, and parallel bars.
Lily emerged wearing scrubs.
“What are you doing here?”
“Inspection.”
“This is a medical clinic.”
“I noticed.”
“You cannot inspect it.”
“I can look.”
She sat beside him.
For several minutes, they watched a little boy practice using forearm crutches.
He fell.
The therapist helped him stand.
He tried again.
Bear’s expression changed.
Lily noticed.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
She smiled.
“Thinking about the crosswalk?”
Bear nodded.
“You were so small.”
“I was eight.”
“You looked smaller.”
“I was terrifying.”
“That too.”
Lily rested her head briefly against his shoulder.
“Do you know why I walked toward you?”
“Your mom told you.”
“No.”
Bear looked at her.
“She told me to find the motorcycles if something happened.”
“Right.”
“But she never said which man was you.”
Bear frowned.
“You had the photograph.”
“In my backpack.”
“You could’ve checked.”
“I didn’t.”
“So how did you know?”
Lily smiled.
“I didn’t.”
Bear stared.
“You walked toward twelve random bikers?”
“Yes.”
“That is terrible judgment.”
“I was eight.”
“That does not improve it.”
She laughed.
Then grew serious.