He turned the key.
The engine came alive.
The sound filled the driveway.
The little girl gasped.
Not because it was too loud.
Because she knew that sound.
Her hands flattened against the sidecar.
The engine vibration traveled through the frame, through the wheelchair, through her arms.
For one heartbeat, she was six years old again.
Before the funeral.
Before everyone began lowering their voices when they said her father’s name.
Before adults stopped knowing what to say around her.
She looked toward her mother.
“Mom.”
Her mother was crying.
The little girl immediately became worried.
“What?”
Her mother shook her head.
“Nothing.”
“Are you sad?”
“Yes.”
The answer surprised her.
Then her mother smiled through tears.
“And happy.”
The little girl frowned.
“At the same time?”
“Yes.”
“That’s weird.”
The biker looked over his shoulder.
“You get used to it.”
The mother looked at him.
He was crying too.
Just slightly.
He wiped his face as though dust had gotten into his eye.
The mechanic pretended not to notice.
The engine ran for forty seconds.
Then the biker shut it off.
The little girl stared.
“That’s it?”
“For today.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
The mother pointed toward the house.
“Yes.”
The girl looked betrayed.
The biker unfastened the outer panel.
“You did good.”
“I sat still.”
“That’s harder than it sounds.”
She glared.
He smiled.
“Friday, if everybody still likes the setup, we roll ten feet.”
Her eyes widened.
“Ten?”
“Maybe twelve.”
She looked at her mother.
“Can I fire him?”
The mother laughed.
“You don’t employ him.”
“Good.”
The biker put one hand over his heart.
“Cruel.”
Friday became twenty feet.
Saturday became one slow circle of the driveway.
Then the moment everyone had been waiting for arrived the following week.
The mother stood at the curb with both hands clasped so tightly her fingers hurt.
The therapist had approved one short neighborhood ride.
The weather was clear.
The pavement dry.
The sidecar checked.
The wheelchair secured.
The little girl wore a fitted helmet and protective jacket.
Her blonde braid disappeared beneath the helmet and emerged at the back.
The biker sat on the restored motorcycle.
His hands rested calmly on the grips.
The mother walked toward him.
“Five miles an hour.”
He nodded.
“Around the block.”
“Yes.”
“No highway.”
“I know.”
“No showing off.”
He looked offended.
“I’m fifty-two.”
“That is not reassuring.”
The mechanic laughed from the sidewalk.
The biker ignored him.
The mother looked into his eyes.
“If she says stop—”