“I always ask.”
“You picked up that wrench yesterday.”
“That was different.”
The father smiled.
Then his face tightened.
The boy saw.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Are you gonna die?”
The entire hallway seemed to stop.
The younger brother did not look toward the giant biker.
He kept his eyes on his child.
“I don’t expect to.”
“That’s not no.”
“No.”
The father swallowed.
“It isn’t.”
The boy’s eyes filled.
The younger brother continued.
“The doctors think they can fix what’s wrong.”
“They do this kind of surgery a lot.”
“I’m scared.”
The boy looked surprised.
His father smiled sadly.
“Being scared doesn’t mean I think something bad will happen.”
“It means I love getting to come home to you.”
The boy began crying.
His father hugged him.
The giant biker looked away.
His own father had never admitted fear.
Not once.
Even when dying.
Especially when dying.
The younger brother whispered:
“And if something unexpected happens, you have people.”
The boy cried harder.
“You.”
“Yes.”
“I want you.”
“I know.”
The father held him tighter.
“Plan A is me.”
“Okay?”
The child nodded against his chest.
“Plan B is everybody else.”
He looked toward the giant biker.
The giant biker stepped closer.
“You’re stuck with me either way.”
The boy gave a wet laugh.
The father looked up.
For one second, the brothers understood something without saying it.
The younger brother had not come home because he expected to die.
He came because fear had exposed the irresponsibility of leaving his son with no bridge to the rest of his family.
The nurse gently reminded them it was time.
The father stood.
Hugged the boy again.
Then looked at his brother.
The giant biker wanted to say a thousand things.
He chose:
“I’m here.”
His brother nodded.
“That’s enough.”
Then he disappeared through the doors.
The boy and giant biker sat in the waiting room.
At first, the child colored.
Then watched television without listening.
Then asked:
“How long?”
The giant biker checked the clock.
“Forty minutes.”
The boy frowned.
“That’s long.”
“No.”
“How long is surgery?”
“Few hours.”
“That’s long.”
“Yes.”
The giant biker did not know what to do with an eight-year-old in a hospital.
He bought snacks.
The boy rejected raisins.
Good.
He bought crackers.
Accepted.
The boy tried to do homework.
Failed.
The giant biker offered help with math.
The boy looked at him.
“You don’t look like you know fractions.”
The biker stared.
“I own a motorcycle shop.”
“That’s not fractions.”
“It absolutely is.”