The mother had almost forgotten.
“Why every day at exactly 4:17?”
The biker looked toward the little girl.
“Your dad told me that was his favorite time.”
The mother frowned.
“Why?”
“He said that was when he usually got home before everything changed.”
The mother remembered.
Her husband worked at a fabrication shop.
His shift ended at four.
He usually turned into their driveway around 4:17.
The little girl used to wait at the window.
The biker continued.
“We started road-testing six weeks ago.”
“The safest route came through here.”
“I knew I could take another street.”
“But…”
He hesitated.
The mother waited.
“I thought maybe she remembered the sound.”
The girl looked at him.
“I do.”
The biker swallowed.
“I’m sorry if I scared you.”
The mother looked toward neighboring windows.
“You scared everyone.”
“That happens.”
The girl asked:
“Are you scary?”
The biker considered.
“Sometimes.”
The mother almost laughed.
The girl looked at his tattooed arms.
“Do you fight people?”
“Not if I can help it.”
“Did you fight Daddy?”
The biker’s beard moved with a small smile.
“Once.”
The mother’s eyebrows rose.
“Excuse me?”
The biker lifted both hands.
“He won.”
The girl laughed loudly.
The mother stared.
“When?”
“Hospital parking lot.”
“Why?”
“I was trying to leave before doctors discharged me.”
“Your husband stood in front of my truck.”
“I told him move.”
“He said no.”
“I shoved him.”
The mother’s face changed.
“You shoved my husband?”
“Twelve years ago.”
“He punched me.”
The girl clapped both hands over her mouth.
The biker continued:
“Then he drove me back to hospital.”
The mother began laughing despite tears.
“That absolutely sounds like him.”
The biker smiled.
“He was five inches shorter.”
“Didn’t matter.”
The mother looked again at the motorcycle.
“Why didn’t he ever tell me about you?”
The biker’s smile faded.
“Because by the time you met him, I wasn’t somebody he needed to explain.”
“What does that mean?”
The biker looked down.
“I was not doing well when he found me.”
The other bikers became quiet.
“I drank.”
“A lot.”
“I fought.”
“Lost jobs.”
“Lost people.”
“The wreck should have killed me.”
“Your husband kept visiting.”
“I hated him for it.”
The little girl frowned.
“Why?”
“Because he expected me to become better.”
“That was inconvenient.”
She smiled.
“He helped me stop drinking.”
“Found me work.”
“Got me back into motorcycles without letting motorcycles become excuse to be stupid.”
The biker looked toward the restored bike.
“He never treated me like I owed him.”
“That made me owe him more.”
The mother whispered: