And somebody wanted me to come nine hundred miles to a diner on Route 66.
I should have called someone.
Asked questions.
Made sure the message was real.
But I was afraid that if I waited long enough to think clearly, I'd find a reason not to go.
So I packed a bag.
Checked the motorcycle.
Then spent the next several days traveling west.
I rode through cold mornings, long highways, and small towns where nobody knew my name.
At night, I stopped in inexpensive motels.
I barely slept.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw my daughter walking away from me.
And every time I woke, I looked at the letter again.
By Saturday morning, I was outside Gallup, New Mexico.
Lou's Diner sat beside an old stretch of Route 66.
Its windows were trimmed in chrome.
A large neon sign glowed above the entrance.
And faded red booths lined the windows overlooking the parking lot.
I arrived nearly two hours early.
Parked my motorcycle.
Walked inside.
Then sat at a booth facing the door.
The waitress brought coffee.
I didn't drink it.
She returned after twenty minutes.
"Want breakfast?"
I shook my head.
"Not hungry."
She smiled.
"That's a first for a biker."
I tried to smile back.
It didn't work.
At eleven-fifty-seven, I looked at the clock.
At eleven-fifty-eight, I checked the door.
At eleven-fifty-nine, my hands began shaking.
Then, exactly at noon, the door opened.
A little girl stepped inside.
Bright pink raincoat.
Yellow backpack.
Light-brown ponytail.
She stopped just beyond the entrance and looked around.
Behind her, through the window, I saw an elderly woman standing beside an old pickup truck.
The woman watched the diner.
But she didn't come inside.
The little girl searched the room.
Then her eyes found me.
She looked at my leather vest.
Then at the empty space over my heart.
And began walking toward me.
I didn't understand why my pulse was pounding.
Not yet.
But something about the way she held her shoulders reminded me of a child I'd once known.
A little girl who used to stand beside my workbench asking questions.
A little girl who believed leather patches could protect people.
A little girl who had grown into a woman I'd hurt so badly that she stopped calling me Dad.
My daughter.
And before I could ask who the child was, she stopped beside my booth.
Then said, "There's supposed to be an empty spot."