He crouched.
“I’m not leaving.”
The child’s expression made clear that adults had said similar things.
The Biker corrected himself.
“If I leave, I tell you first.”
The boy looked toward the front door.
“Even at night?”
“Yes.”
“What if you go to the store?”
“I tell you.”
“What if I’m asleep?”
“I write a note and wake you if it’s important.”
The Little Boy thought.
“Can the door stay open?”
“Yes.”
“Hall light?”
“Yes.”
“Your door too?”
The Biker almost said he slept better with it closed.
Then realized how small that inconvenience was.
“Yes.”
The Little Boy slept in the bed.
For three hours.
At two in the morning, the Biker woke to find him standing in the hallway.
“What?”
The child whispered, “I had a dream.”
The Biker sat up.
“Bad?”
A nod.
The Biker had no idea what to do.
He patted the edge of the bed.
The Little Boy climbed up.
Then hesitated.
“Mom used to rub my back.”
The Biker swallowed.
“I can do that.”
He tried.
Too hard.
“Ow.”
“Sorry.”
The child adjusted his hand.
“Like this.”
The Biker followed.
Within ten minutes, the boy slept.
The Biker did not.
He stared at the ceiling.
Then toward the child.
His daughter had done this.
Night after night.
He had missed all of it.
First steps.
First words.
First fever.
First school day.
Six birthdays before the one destroyed at the gas station.
Regret entered quietly.
Then sat beside him until morning.
The next problem was breakfast.
The Biker made eggs.
The Little Boy ate two bites.
“Don’t like eggs?”
“I do.”
“Then?”
The boy looked toward the refrigerator.
“Can I keep some?”
The Biker frowned.
“For later.”
“There’s more.”
“I know.”
The Biker understood after several seconds.
Food insecurity was not part of the original story, but uncertainty was.
The child had spent a month after his mother’s death watching the Stepfather decide what counted as necessary.
Meals became smaller.
Snacks “wasteful.”
Birthday cake ridiculous.
The Biker took a container from the cabinet.
“You want half saved?”
The child nodded.
“Okay.”
He packed it.
Placed it on the refrigerator shelf.
Then wrote the boy’s name on masking tape.
The child stared.
“That’s mine?”
“Yes.”
“Can you eat it?”
“Not without asking.”
“What if you’re hungry?”
“I have food.”
The Little Boy looked unconvinced.
The Biker opened the pantry.
“This shelf.”
He pointed.
“Yours too.”