He could still remember that evening.
The garage.
The electrical warning he'd ignored.
The sound of the boy shouting.
And the terrible moment when smoke began spreading into the house.
He took a trembling breath.
"Your mother didn't start that fire."
The boy looked up.
"She didn't?"
"No."
"Then who did?"
The biker closed his eyes.
For seventy-six years, he'd survived accidents, fights, losses, and the death of people he loved.
He'd once broken his leg in three places and refused to cry while waiting for an ambulance.
He'd buried his wife.
Lost his closest friend.
And spent nights alone in a quiet house, wondering how many mistakes a man could make before there was no time left to repair them.
But nothing had prepared him for the next sentence.
He looked into the child's eyes.
Then whispered, "It was my motorcycle."
The boy stared.
The biker's voice broke.
"The electrical equipment connected to my bike started the fire."
The little boy looked toward the scorched key.
Then back at the old man.
"But Mommy said it was her fault."
The biker shook his head.
"She was wrong."
A tear slipped into his beard.
"And I should've told her sooner."
The boy became very quiet.
He studied the old man's face.
Then asked a question that made the biker feel as though his heart had stopped.
"Did you know?"
The old man couldn't speak immediately.
Because that was the part he'd been trying to escape.
He hadn't known exactly how the fire would begin.
He hadn't intended to hurt anyone.
But he'd noticed trouble with the motorcycle's electrical charging equipment before that night.
He'd told himself it was probably nothing.
And he hadn't arranged for a proper inspection.
Now the child was asking whether the old man had understood that something might be wrong.
The biker nodded slowly.
"I knew something wasn't right with the bike."
The boy looked toward the window.
Then whispered, "And you didn't fix it?"
The old man's face crumpled.
"No."
The child looked down at his hands.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then he asked, "Is that why you got hurt?"
The biker touched the bandage around his forehead.
"Partly."
The boy stared at him.
"Did you come back into the house?"
The old man nodded.
"Yes."
"To get me?"
"Yes."