“What?”
The child searched frantically.
Then found something.
A creased photograph.
He held it tightly against his chest.
The Biker noticed but did not ask.
The child stared at him.
Longer than before.
Something in his expression changed.
Confusion.
He looked at the photograph.
Then at the Biker.
Again.
The Biker frowned.
“What is it?”
The Little Boy slowly held out the picture.
“My mom told me something.”
The Biker reached halfway.
Stopped.
“May I?”
The boy nodded.
The Biker took the photograph.
It was old.
Maybe twenty-five years.
Edges faded.
A young woman stood beside a motorcycle.
Nineteen or twenty.
Dark blonde hair.
Bright eyes.
Denim jacket.
One arm around a much younger man wearing a leather vest.
The man had fewer tattoos.
No gray beard.
But the eyes were the same.
The Biker stopped breathing.
The woman beside them noticed.
“You know her?”
The Biker did not answer.
His thumb trembled against the photograph.
The Little Boy watched.
“My mom said if something bad happened…”
The Biker looked up sharply.
“What?”
“She told me to find the man in the picture.”
The Biker stared at him.
The child continued.
“She said his name was Grandpa.”
Rain seemed to disappear.
Traffic disappeared.
The gas station disappeared.
The Biker saw only the photograph.
His daughter.
His little girl.
Twenty years younger.
Alive.
Smiling.
Standing beside him after her first motorcycle ride.
The Biker had kept another copy of that photograph in a drawer for years.
He knew every detail.
The scratch on the fuel tank.
The cheap sunglasses hanging from his daughter’s shirt.
The roadside diner sign blurred behind them.
He looked at the child.
Same eyes.
He had not noticed before.
How could he?
He had not known what he was looking for.
Now it was impossible not to see.
The shape around the eyes.
The way one eyebrow rose slightly higher.
His daughter’s face inside a seven-year-old boy.
The Biker’s mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
The Little Boy looked frightened again.
“You’re him?”
The Biker swallowed.
“I…”
He looked at the photograph.
Then the child.
“Yes.”
His voice broke.
“I think I am.”
The child’s shoulders dropped slightly.
Relief.
Not complete.
But real.
The Biker turned the photograph over.
Handwriting covered the back.
He knew it instantly.
His daughter had always written too hard, leaving grooves in paper.
Dad,
If anything happens to me, please find my son.
Don’t believe anyone who says I stopped loving you.
I’ll explain everything when I can.