Then waited.
Several days later, the fire investigator contacted him again.
The preliminary findings continued pointing toward an electrical failure associated with the motorcycle's charging equipment in the garage.
The investigator needed additional records.
The old man provided the notebook.
He also acknowledged the warning behavior he'd noticed.
The conversation was difficult.
He felt ashamed.
But he answered.
The investigator explained that the final report would require further analysis.
It wasn't appropriate to assign conclusions beyond the available evidence.
The biker understood.
He'd spent his life around machinery.
He knew that finding a damaged component after a fire didn't automatically establish the entire sequence.
But he also knew his own responsibility extended beyond the final technical conclusion.
He had noticed something wrong.
He had delayed checking it.
And now a child was recovering in a hospital.
That was enough to keep him awake at night.
Then the social worker called.
She explained that the boy had been asking about him.
The old biker felt a sudden rush of relief.
The child still wanted to see him.
He promised to visit when medically able.
The social worker also mentioned the mother's difficulty returning to the hospital.
The old man's stomach tightened.
He asked why.
The social worker couldn't share private information beyond what was appropriate.
But she explained that the mother was experiencing severe guilt and distress following the fire.
The biker closed his eyes.
He knew what that meant.
She believed she'd caused it.
And he had let her believe that while he waited for an official report to tell him what he already feared.
For several seconds, he couldn't speak.
Then he asked whether he could bring information that might help the family understand the fire.
The social worker encouraged him to coordinate with the appropriate professionals and the child's legal guardian.
He agreed.
But he didn't immediately call the mother.
He sat with the phone in his hand for nearly an hour.
Then placed it on the table.
He told himself he needed one more day.
One more conversation.
One more piece of evidence.
He didn't realize that every additional day of silence was becoming another day the boy spent believing his mother didn't want him.
Finally, on the nineteenth day after the fire, the old biker stood before his mirror.
He adjusted the white bandage on his forehead.