Caleb continued.
One attacker grabbed a tire iron from the truck bed.
Caleb moved backward.
The older man tried to intervene.
The metal bar swung.
Not at Caleb.
At the older man.
It caught him near the shoulder.
The man fell hard against Caleb’s Harley.
Blood from a cut along his scalp smeared the tank.
Caleb lost his temper then.
Not the proudest part.
He tackled the attacker.
Another man punched him in the ribs.
Someone called police.
The younger riders fled before deputies arrived.
Caleb stayed with the injured man until the ambulance came.
“Was he dying?”
“No.”
“Lots of blood?”
“Head wounds bleed a lot.”
Noah looked relieved and horrified simultaneously.
“Did you know him?”
“No.”
“Why did you help?”
Caleb frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“You didn't know him.”
“You help people because they need help.”
Noah looked toward the envelope.
Caleb saw the connection before the boy spoke.
“Even if you're sick?”
Caleb nodded.
“Especially then.”
Noah squeezed the hospital envelope tighter.
“Mom said you're supposed to rest.”
“She says many things.”
“Doctor said?”
Caleb sighed.
“Yes.”
“Then why did you ride?”
That question hurt more than Caleb expected.
Because he knew the answer.
He had spent weeks pretending he did not.
The diagnosis had changed the shape of everything.
Before lymphoma, a morning ride was a morning ride.
After lymphoma, each ride came with the possibility that something familiar might become a last.
Last ride.
Last oil change.
Last school pickup.
Last Christmas.
Caleb hated the language of “last.”
So he had gone riding to prove nothing had changed.
Then violence found him anyway.
“I was angry.”
“At who?”
“Nobody.”
“That doesn't make sense.”
“It doesn't.”
Noah leaned closer.
“At cancer?”
Caleb nodded.
“Yeah.”
“Can you punch cancer?”
“No.”
“Can doctors?”
“In a way.”
Noah looked at the Harley.
“Then let them.”
The sentence was so simple Caleb almost broke.
He turned his face slightly away.
Noah noticed.
“Are you crying?”
“No.”
“You are.”
“Garage dust.”
“Dad.”
“Fine.”
Caleb wiped one eye.
“One tear.”
“Two.”
“Don't push it.”
Noah smiled.
For the first time since entering the garage, the fear loosened.
Then the kitchen door opened.
Mara stood there.
She had heard enough to understand.
Her face went pale when she saw the envelope.
“Noah.”
The boy stood.
“You hid it.”
Mara closed her eyes.
Caleb watched the accusation hit her.
She stepped into the garage.
Mara Mercer was thirty-nine, small compared with Caleb, dark-haired, practical, and incapable of faking calm when her son looked hurt.
She crouched.
“I did.”
“Why?”
“Because I was scared.”
Noah stared.
“You?”
“Yes.”
“Adults get scared?”
Caleb laughed softly.
Mara shot him a look.
“Constantly.”
Noah looked between them.
“Then why do you tell me not to be?”
“We tell you not to let fear control you.”