Jenna listened.
At the end she said:
“I need to think.”
Mack replied:
“Good.”
She seemed surprised.
“No pressure?”
“No.”
“What if I say no?”
“Then Pete sends you the form showing what Aaron paid.”
“You keep it.”
Jenna almost laughed.
“You’re terrible at fundraising.”
“I’m excellent at motorcycles.”
“Debatable.”
He smiled.
For one second Aaron existed in the rhythm between them.
Jenna heard it too.
She hung up fifteen minutes later.
She called back the next morning.
“I’ll take the survivor grant.”
Mack leaned against the workbench.
“Okay.”
“But only that.”
“Okay.”
“And I want paperwork.”
“You’ll get more than you want.”
“No riders showing up.”
“Agreed.”
“No photos.”
“Agreed.”
“No telling Nora we needed help.”
Mack became quiet.
“Why?”
“Because she already thinks she has to fix things.”
He remembered the vending machine.
Thirty-three cents.
“Understood.”
Jenna continued:
“And I want one thing.”
“What?”
“Tell me the story.”
Mack froze.
“What story?”
“How Aaron saved you.”
Not for Nora.
For me.
Mack looked toward the shop floor.
He had told the summary.
Truck.
Guardrail.
Fire.
She wanted the part beneath the facts.
“Okay.”
They met at a park halfway between Springfield and Jefferson City the following Sunday.
No motorcycle club.
No vest.
Mack arrived in a pickup.
Jenna came with Nora and Eli.
Rebecca stayed nearby with the children while Jenna sat with Mack at a picnic table beside the lake.
Spring wind moved across the water.
Mack brought one photograph.
Aaron at twenty-seven.
Sitting on the hood of an old truck.
Middle finger raised.
Jenna smiled despite herself.
“That’s him.”
Mack nodded.
Then he told her.
Highway 23.
October 2011.
Rain had started unexpectedly.
The Sentinel Riders were returning from a veterans fundraiser.
Mack was riding front left.
Aaron behind him.
A pickup entered their lane after its driver looked down at a phone.
Mack swerved.
Hit gravel.
Lost control.
The motorcycle crossed the shoulder and dropped down an embankment.
He hit a tree.
The fuel line ruptured.
Mack remembered almost nothing.
Aaron remembered everything.
He parked badly enough that his own bike fell over.
Slid down the embankment.
Mack was unconscious with one leg trapped.
Aaron could smell fuel.
He could hear other riders calling 911.
He knew moving an injured person risked spinal damage.
He also saw fire beginning near the bike.
So he moved Mack.
Pulled.
Could not free the boot.
Cut the leather with a pocketknife.
Dragged Mack uphill by the vest.
The motorcycle ignited twenty seconds later.
Aaron’s left arm burned.
His fingers fractured when Mack’s body slipped.
Jenna touched her mouth.
Mack continued:
“I woke up in the hospital.”
“Aaron was in the next room.”
“First thing he said was I owed him a new knife.”
Jenna laughed through tears.
“That sounds like him.”
“I tried to pay his lost wages.”
“He told me to go to hell.”
Mack smiled.
“I tried again.”