The boy had already run almost half a block when the biker finally heard him.
“Sir! Hold on!”
The biker stopped beside the polished black touring motorcycle parked along the main street of the small Colorado town and glanced over one broad shoulder.
At first he assumed the voice belonged to somebody else.
People did not usually chase after him.
Not unless they wanted trouble, money, or something repaired.
Then he saw the child.
Ten years old at most.
Thin.
Messy light-brown hair lifting in the summer wind.
A faded blue T-shirt hanging loosely from narrow shoulders.
Tan work pants with one knee repaired by a square of darker fabric.
And shoes so badly worn that the white rubber had separated from the fabric near the toes.
The boy was running anyway.
He held something in his right hand.
A black leather wallet.
The biker instinctively touched the back pocket of his jeans.
Empty.
He turned fully.
The boy reached him out of breath.
“You dropped this.”
He extended the wallet.
The biker stared at it.
Then at the boy.
“Where?”
“Back there.”
The child pointed toward a bench outside a hardware store.
“You stood up and it fell under the bench.”
The biker took the wallet.
It was his.
Heavy leather.
Scratched near one corner.
Inside were his license, several cards, folded receipts, an old photograph, and nearly two thousand dollars in cash he had withdrawn that morning to pay a private seller for a set of vintage motorcycle parts.
He opened the bill compartment.
Every dollar appeared to be there.
He counted quickly.
The boy noticed.
His face tightened.
The biker looked up.
“You didn’t take anything?”
The boy looked genuinely offended.
“No.”
The biker glanced downward.
The shoes.
One sole had been wrapped near the heel with a strip of gray tape.
The child followed his eyes and immediately shifted one foot behind the other.
The biker closed the wallet.
“There’s enough cash in here to buy you ten pairs of shoes.”
The boy’s jaw set.
“So?”
“You found it alone?”
“Yes.”
“No adults around?”
The boy shook his head.
The biker leaned slightly closer.
“You could’ve taken twenty dollars.”
The boy’s expression changed.
Not temptation.
Hurt.
“My mom says being poor is no excuse for stealing.”
The biker went very still.
The street noise seemed to move farther away.
Cars passed.
Somebody laughed outside a café.
A delivery truck reversed somewhere behind them with a repetitive electronic beep.
The boy stood there with sweat along his hairline, waiting for his property to be accepted so he could leave.
The biker looked at him for another moment.
Then nodded.