The old man swallowed.
"Whatever I'm supposed to do."
His friend shook his head.
"That's not enough."
The biker looked up.
The friend continued.
"You need to talk to somebody who can help you figure out what responsibility actually looks like."
The old man frowned.
"Like a lawyer?"
"Probably. And somebody for the nightmares."
The biker looked away.
His friend continued.
"You haven't slept properly in weeks."
The old man shrugged.
"I don't deserve to sleep."
His friend's expression hardened.
"That's not how responsibility works."
The biker stared.
The older man leaned forward.
"Punishing yourself in an empty kitchen doesn't help that child."
For several seconds, silence filled the room.
Then the friend added, "Tell the truth. Make things right where you can. And accept the things you can't fix."
The biker closed his eyes.
He remembered the social worker saying something similar.
But hearing it from a man he'd ridden beside for thirty years made the words harder to dismiss.
He nodded slowly.
Then looked toward the vest.
"I don't think I can ride again."
His friend studied him.
"Maybe you won't."
The biker swallowed.
"Doesn't feel right."
His friend nodded.
"Then don't make that decision today."
The old man looked up.
The friend continued.
"You've got enough to work through without deciding the rest of your life this afternoon."
For the first time in weeks, the biker allowed someone to help him.
They made a list.
Legal advice.
Follow-up medical care.
A professional evaluation of the damaged motorcycle and the relevant records.
And support for the anxiety and nightmares he'd been experiencing since the fire.
They also discussed financial responsibility.
The biker had savings.
Not enormous savings.
But enough to contribute meaningfully toward the harm his actions had helped cause.
He wanted to give the mother everything immediately.
His friend advised him to coordinate properly with the family's representatives and insurers.
Not to make promises he couldn't fulfill.
And not to use money as a substitute for acknowledging what happened.
The biker nodded.
Then looked toward the key.
He picked it up.
For nineteen days, he'd treated it as a symbol of guilt.
Now he realized it could also become a reminder of something his father taught him when he was young.
When a machine failed, the first step was finding the truth.