The girl thought.
“She sang wrong.”
The biker blinked.
“What?”
“She sang everything wrong.”
A tiny smile appeared.
“If the radio said one word, she’d say something different.”
“On purpose?”
“I think.”
The smile grew.
“My dad used to say she could ruin any song in America.”
The biker smiled too.
“Sounds talented.”
“She was.”
Then the smile disappeared.
“Dad got quieter after.”
The biker nodded.
“People do.”
“He still talks about her.”
“Good.”
“He says if we stop talking about her, she has to disappear twice.”
The biker looked at the girl.
That sounded like something a man he once knew would say.
Something moved in his memory.
He ignored it.
There were thousands of fathers in Tennessee.
Thousands of men with grief.
He asked:
“What does your dad do?”
“Construction.”
“Before he fell.”
“Yes.”
“What does he do now?”
“Calls people.”
“For work?”
She nodded.
“And?”
“They ask if he can lift fifty pounds.”
The biker understood.
“What does he say?”
“Yes.”
“Can he?”
The girl shook her head.
The biker sighed.
“What happened to his back?”
“Two broken bones.”
“Vertebrae?”
“I don’t know.”
“And his leg?”
The girl looked surprised.
“How’d you know?”
“People who fall from roofs usually don’t hurt one thing.”
She nodded.
“His knee.”
“Insurance?”
The word meant nothing to her.
The biker changed it.
“Did his work pay the doctor?”
“Oh.”
She shrugged.
“Some.”
“Is he getting money while he can’t work?”
Another shrug.
That likely meant no.
The biker had seen enough.
“What apartment?”
The girl immediately became guarded.
“Why?”
“I want to bring your dad food.”
“No.”
The answer came fast.
The biker raised both hands.
“Okay.”
“He’ll be mad.”
“At you?”
“At himself.”
The old man understood that too.
“He doesn’t like people helping?”
“He helps people.”
“Different thing.”
“Yeah.”
The biker looked toward the fundraiser.
“I’m not asking to embarrass him.”
She shook her head.
“No.”
“Can I give you a bag instead?”
The girl looked at him.
“With enough food for both of you?”
She hesitated.
“Would you tell?”
“No.”
“To the people?”