The girl fixed it herself with tape.
He stopped.
Went back inside.
“He was going to help you,” the mother said later.
The girl smiled.
“I know.”
“How?”
“He looked at the chain.”
“It’s cardboard.”
“Still a chain guard.”
Her mother shook her head.
Months passed.
The girl improved the bike constantly.
She reinforced the frame.
Added a fake speedometer.
Painted faux chrome onto the exhaust.
Attached a bicycle bell where a horn should be.
Then came Saturday morning.
Bright sunlight.
Clean sky.
The mother sat on the porch drinking coffee while the girl worked in the driveway.
The child wore her oversized pink helmet, yellow T-shirt, denim overalls, and sneakers.
She had added a skull to the fuel tank.
Not a frightening skull.
Something closer to a smiling potato with eye sockets.
Her mother stared.
“That’s terrible.”
The girl looked offended.
“It’s vintage.”
“It’s anatomically confused.”
“You don’t understand custom paint.”
“That is true.”
The girl pushed off.
“Vroom.”
She reached the street.
Turned.
Then rode toward the motorcycle shop.
The gray-bearded biker was already outside.
For the first time, he stepped directly into the driveway.
The girl stopped.
Her mother immediately stood.
Every irrational warning from her own mother returned.
Big biker.
Child.
Motorcycle shop.
The gray-bearded man walked toward the girl.
Slow.
Heavy boots against concrete.
The girl remained seated on the cardboard bike.
He stopped beside her.
Looked down.
The child looked up.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then he crouched.
His expression changed.
“That’s a beautiful build, kid.”
The girl’s eyes widened.
Her mother froze halfway down the driveway.
“Really?”
The biker nodded.
“Really.”
He touched nothing.
Only looked.
“What year?”
The girl did not hesitate.
“Nineteen ninety-eight Heritage Softail.”
The biker’s eyes sharpened.
“Color?”
“Sequoia Yellow Pearl.”
He glanced toward the tank.
“With black trim?”
“Yes.”
“Two-tone leather seat?”
The girl nodded.
“The one from the July 2003 issue of Cycle World.”
The biker stared.
Then:
“That issue didn’t feature a ninety-eight.”
The girl smiled.
“The article was about used touring cruisers.”
The biker’s eyebrow lifted.
“You read it?”
“Three times.”
“Why?”
“The pictures were good.”
For the first time anyone in the neighborhood had ever seen, the gray-bearded biker smiled.
Barely.
But definitely.
He leaned closer to the fake engine.
“What’s this?”
“Eighty cubic inch Evolution.”
“You sure?”