He stared at the house.
Somewhere inside lived a man who might be his twin brother.
Not metaphorically.
Not through friendship.
Not through some distant branch of a family tree.
His twin.
Separated before memory.
The father came around the pickup.
“You okay?”
The biker nodded.
“No.”
The father laughed softly.
“Same.”
Inside, the house told the story of a family the biker had never imagined existing.
Photographs covered one wall.
Birthdays.
Vacations.
School plays.
Christmas mornings.
The father holding his daughter when she was an infant.
The father standing beside his wife on their wedding day.
The father repairing a fence.
The father sleeping on a couch with the little girl on his chest.
The biker moved slowly along the photographs.
It felt like looking at an alternate version of his own life.
The mother noticed.
“You want coffee?”
“Yes.”
The father answered from the kitchen.
“He always wants coffee.”
The biker turned.
“So do you.”
The father looked offended.
“Coffee is normal.”
“Black?”
The father paused.
“Yes.”
“No sugar?”
“Yes.”
The biker looked at the mother.
She laughed.
“This is going to get annoying.”
The guest room overlooked the backyard.
The biker placed his duffel on the bed.
He had packed for four days.
Suddenly even unpacking felt like a decision about the future.
Dinner that night was simple.
Grilled chicken.
Potatoes.
Salad.
The little girl insisted the biker sit beside her.
She asked questions continuously.
Did he have children?
No.
Why not?
Life went differently.
Did he have a wife?
Not anymore.
Did he live in a house?
Yes.
Was it far away?
Very.
Did he have a dog?
No.
Why?
He traveled too much.
Could he get one?
Probably.
Could it be pink?
Probably not.
The father laughed.
The biker realized how much he liked the sound.
After dinner, the little girl brought out crayons.
She drew two men holding hands.
One had gray hair.
The other had dark hair.
Between them she drew herself.
Above all three she wrote FAMILY with the letters backward in two places.
The biker stared at the drawing.
The little girl pushed it toward him.
“You can keep it.”
He swallowed.
“Thank you.”
That night, nobody slept well.
The biker lay awake staring at the ceiling.