Nobody believed that.
Wade put on his coat.
The president asked:
“Need somebody?”
“No.”
He left.
Mercy Children’s Hospital was twenty-six minutes away in good weather.
That night it took forty-three.
During the drive, Wade’s anger cooled into something worse.
Memory.
Aaron Hart had entered Wade’s life when both were thirteen.
Aaron was skinny.
Too smart.
Bad at fighting.
Wade was huge even then.
Bad at school.
Excellent at fighting.
They met after Wade saw three older boys shove Aaron into a drainage ditch behind the middle school.
Wade broke one boy’s nose.
The friendship lasted through suspensions, girlfriends, jobs, arrests, marriages, children, funerals, and years when they barely spoke.
Aaron never joined the Steel Saints.
He rode motorcycles.
Loved them.
But became an electrician, then a father, then the kind of man who owned three different emergency flashlights and checked smoke detectors on schedule.
Wade mocked him.
Aaron mocked Wade’s inability to keep paperwork organized.
When Rebecca and Maya died, Aaron was the first person to reach the hospital.
The first person Wade saw afterward.
The only one who stayed when Wade became unbearable.
Rebecca and Maya were killed by a drunk driver on Interstate 75.
Wade had not been with them.
That did not stop him from assigning himself responsibility.
He had planned to drive them.
Then a club member called with a broken motorcycle.
Wade went to help.
Rebecca said she could drive herself.
Wade kissed her goodbye.
Two hours later, police came to the garage.
For years Wade’s mind reduced the tragedy to one decision.
If I had said no.
If I had driven.
If I had been there.
Aaron spent years telling him the drunk driver made the decision that mattered.
Wade spent years refusing the mercy.
After the funeral, he stopped visiting families.
Stopped holding babies.
Stopped attending children’s birthday parties.
When Aaron’s daughter was born, Wade sent a gift and did not visit.
When Lily had her first heart surgery, Wade sent money anonymously.
When Aaron invited him to her fifth birthday, he claimed the garage was busy.
When Lily asked on video who Uncle Bear was, Wade turned off the phone.
Running.
Aaron had called it running.
Wade preferred distance.
Distance sounded deliberate.
When Wade reached Mercy Children’s, Aaron was not there.
Lily was.
She recognized him immediately.
That had been the first impossible thing.
Wade stood in the doorway of room 417, uncertain whether he had the right place.
The little girl looked at him.
Her eyes widened.
“Uncle Bear?”
Wade stopped.
“How…”
She smiled.
“You’re bigger than Dad said.”
Wade stared.
The nurse looked between them.
“You know him?”
Lily nodded enthusiastically.
“That’s Uncle Bear.”
The nurse relaxed.
Wade did not.
He entered carefully.
Lily studied his vest.
“Dad said you have a bear tattoo.”
Wade sighed.
“Your dad talks too much.”
“Show me.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s ugly.”
“Dad said it looks angry.”
“It is.”
“Show me.”
Ten minutes later, Wade had shown her the old bear tattoo covering his right shoulder.
Lily declared it “medium scary.”
Then told him about her hospital stay.
Then asked why he had never visited before.
Wade lied.
“Busy.”
She considered.
“For eight years?”
He looked at her.
Children had no respect for weak excuses.
“Yes.”
“That’s a lot of busy.”
“Yep.”
She accepted the answer more kindly than he deserved.
Then she asked:
“Did you bring Patches?”
Wade realized Aaron had not returned.