The old man sat alone.
His hands rested on his knees.
He stared toward the floor.
For several minutes, he could hear distant sounds from the hospital corridor.
A cart moving.
A telephone ringing.
Someone laughing softly near the nurses' station.
He thought of the boy asking whether his mother had stopped loving him.
Then he thought of the scorched key in his pocket.
He wanted to throw it away.
He wanted to stop seeing the damaged plastic and remembering the garage.
But he knew throwing it away wouldn't change anything.
So he kept it.
The social worker arrived fifteen minutes later.
She was a woman in her early fifties with an unhurried manner and the kind of patience that made frightened people feel they didn't have to explain everything perfectly.
She introduced herself.
Then sat across from the biker.
"Tell me what happened."
He did.
He described the motorcycle.
The charging equipment.
The irregular behavior he'd noticed.
His failure to arrange an inspection.
The fire.
The rescue.
And the conversations with the investigator.
He also explained why he'd waited to speak.
At first, his words came slowly.
Then they began spilling out.
He told her about the mother.
How she'd allowed him to use the garage.
How she'd trusted him.
How he'd helped care for the boy after his father died.
And how frightened he was that admitting his responsibility would cost him the only family he'd felt close to since losing his wife.
The social worker listened.
She didn't excuse his silence.
But she didn't humiliate him either.
When he finished, she asked a simple question.
"What do you want to happen now?"
The biker looked up.
"I want his mother to come back."
The woman nodded.
"And what about your relationship with the family?"
He swallowed.
"I don't know."
She waited.
He continued.
"Maybe they won't want me around anymore."
His eyes filled.
"I'd understand."
The social worker leaned forward.
"Then that's a possibility you'll need to respect."
He nodded.
She continued.
"But your responsibility now is to tell the truth, cooperate with the investigation, and let the family decide what contact feels safe."
The biker looked toward the door.
"I know."
The woman studied him.
"There's something else."
He looked up.
"The child cannot be responsible for comforting you about what happened."