The biker refused to influence.
“Pick what you want.”
The girl groaned.
“You always say that.”
“Good advice doesn’t expire.”
She chose a university several hours away.
The night before leaving, she asked for one last ride.
At exactly 4:17.
The biker’s beard had gone almost completely gray.
He moved slower.
Not much.
Enough.
The girl noticed.
She did not mention.
They rode through neighborhood.
Same road.
Same turn.
Same trees grown taller.
She looked toward old front window.
“I used to wait there.”
“I know.”
“Did you see me the first time?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you stop?”
“I was afraid.”
She laughed.
“You?”
“Yes.”
“Of what?”
“Getting promise wrong.”
The girl went quiet.
He continued.
“I knew bike was close.”
“I wanted everything finished before I showed.”
“So you drove past?”
“Testing.”
“And checking?”
He smiled faintly.
“Yes.”
“Checking what?”
“That you were still there.”
The girl looked toward him.
The biker’s eyes stayed on road.
“Your dad talked about that house so much I thought I already knew it.”
“When I finally saw you at window…”
He swallowed.
“I realized this wasn’t about him anymore.”
“It was about you.”
The girl held brass key.
“That scared you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Dead people are easy.”
She frowned.
“They don’t change.”
“They don’t ask questions.”
“They don’t tell you your sidecar design is bad.”
She laughed.
“Living people are harder.”
He glanced toward her.
“Better too.”
They returned.
The girl hugged him.
“Will you still be here when I come home?”
The biker hesitated.
He had learned enough about death not to make promises casually.
“I’ll try.”
She wanted more.
Then understood.
“Okay.”
College turned the girl into a young woman.
She called less often than her mother wanted.
More often than the biker expected.
She sent photographs of machine shops.
CAD models.
Broken prototypes.
One message at two in the morning:
You were right about overbuilding brackets.
The biker replied:
Screenshotting this.
She responded:
I take it back.
He did screenshot.
At twenty-one, she joined a university team designing adaptive recreational equipment.
Her professors initially expected her to focus on wheelchairs.
She refused.
“I’m interested in motorcycles.”
One professor asked:
“Why?”
She smiled.
“Long story.”