“Your mother sounds smart.”
“She is.”
“Where is she?”
“At work.”
“Where?”
The boy became cautious.
The biker noticed immediately.
Good.
A child should not automatically give strangers that information.
“Never mind,” the biker said. “I shouldn’t have asked like that.”
The boy relaxed slightly.
The biker opened the wallet again.
He pulled out two twenty-dollar bills.
The boy’s face hardened.
“No.”
“It’s a reward.”
“No.”
“You ran half a block.”
“I gave you your wallet.”
“Exactly.”
The boy shook his head.
“I didn’t do it to get paid.”
The biker looked at the money.
Then slowly returned it to the wallet.
“All right.”
The boy nodded once.
Then turned.
The biker watched him take three steps.
“Kid.”
The boy looked back.
“What?”
“What’s your name?”
The child hesitated again.
Then gave only his first name.
The biker respected that.
He told the boy what people called him on the road.
The child glanced at the motorcycle.
“You ride with a club?”
“Sometimes.”
“My mom hates motorcycles.”
The biker smiled.
“Smart woman.”
That finally got a small grin.
Then the wind caught the wallet before the biker could close it completely.
A photograph slipped free.
It fluttered downward.
The boy bent instinctively.
“So did I.”
Both reached for it.
The boy got there first.
His fingers closed around one corner.
He turned it over.
The smile vanished.
The biker saw the change before he understood why.
The photograph was old.
Almost fifteen years old.
Two younger men stood beside a half-finished custom motorcycle outside a small workshop.
One was the biker.
Less gray.
Longer beard.
Fewer lines around the eyes.
The man beside him was slimmer, with a crooked smile, dark hair, and grease across one forearm.
The boy stared.
His face emptied.
The biker reached out.
“You okay?”
The child did not move.
“Why do you have this?”
The biker frowned.
“What?”
The boy pointed at the second man.
“Why do you have a picture of my dad?”
The biker felt something cold move through his chest.
He stared at the boy.
Then at the photograph.
Then back at the boy’s face.
Now he saw it.
The eyes.
Not exact.
But close.
The shape around the mouth.
The small crease beside the left eyebrow.
The biker’s grip tightened around the wallet.
“What did you say?”
“That’s my dad.”
The boy looked at the photograph again.
“My mom has one picture where he looks almost like this.”
The biker’s voice changed.
“Your father?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
The boy frowned.
“He’s dead.”
The biker did not breathe.
The boy continued:
“He died when I was little.”
“How little?”
“I don’t remember him.”
“Who told you that?”