“Total contributions…”
“Don’t care.”
Pete became quiet.
Mack asked:
“What does charter say about former members?”
“You wrote the charter.”
“I was angry when we rewrote it.”
“You’re angry most days.”
“Pete.”
“Fine.”
Keyboard.
“Eligible households include active members, retired members in good standing, former members who maintained relief contributions for twelve consecutive months before qualifying event…”
Pete stopped.
“Oh.”
Mack whispered:
“Yeah.”
Aaron’s family was eligible.
Not charity.
Not a favor from Mack.
A system Aaron himself had funded.
Pete asked:
“His family?”
Mack stared at the thirty-three cents.
“I found them.”
The Sentinel Riders meeting began Sunday at ten.
Mack rarely scheduled Sunday meetings.
Attendance was still nearly complete.
Twenty-three members sat inside the clubhouse.
Coffee.
Folding chairs.
A few irritated faces.
Mack stood near the front.
Pete had placed Aaron’s contribution record on the table.
Mack told the story.
Not every detail.
Gas station.
Nora.
Milk.
Jenna.
Eli.
Broken alternator.
Moving to Jefferson City.
Silence followed.
Then a man named Curtis asked:
“They’re homeless?”
Mack’s face hardened.
“I didn’t say that.”
“Between places.”
“That is not for us to gossip about.”
Curtis nodded.
“Sorry.”
Pete adjusted his glasses.
“They’re eligible for Road Home.”
Mack nodded.
Another rider said:
“Then send the standard survivor payment.”
Pete looked toward him.
“There wasn’t a claim.”
“Because they didn’t know.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Mack said:
“It matters how.”
The room became quiet.
He continued:
“We’re not showing up with twenty motorcycles.”
“We’re not handing Jenna an envelope in front of her kids.”
“We’re not taking pictures.”
“Nobody posts anything.”
“Nobody says ‘Aaron would want this’ unless you personally spoke to him about it.”
One rider frowned.
“What do we do?”
Mack held up Aaron’s old note.
“We do what he built the fund for.”
“We make sure they don’t have to beg.”
Pete asked:
“Address?”
Mack shook his head.
“Don’t have it.”
“You let them leave?”
“Yes.”
Several men stared.
Mack crossed his arms.
“Say it.”
Curtis shrugged.
“Growth.”
Mack told him exactly where he could place that observation.
The club laughed.
Then Mack became serious.
“We find them without stalking them.”
Pete sighed.
“That sentence has legal-office potential.”
Mack called the number Jenna had used at the gas station kiosk only because she had left it on the receipt? No. He had not gotten it.
He had nothing.
Except her name.
Jenna Pierce.
Jefferson City.
Aaron’s widow.
Aunt Rebecca.
He could search.
He did not.
Instead he called a number from Aaron’s old emergency-contact record.
Rebecca Cole.
Jenna’s sister.
The line worked.
A woman answered cautiously.
“Yes?”
“This is Malcolm Delaney.”
Silence.
“I knew Aaron.”
Another silence.