Outside, the sight was overwhelming.
Motorcycles filled nearly every permitted section.
Riders stood in small groups.
Some drank coffee.
Some talked quietly.
Several had collected donations for the hospital without being asked.
A dozen had already volunteered for a blood drive after hearing the pediatric floor struggled to maintain certain supplies.
The mother walked toward the gray-bearded biker.
He noticed.
Separated from the others.
She stopped several feet away.
“What happened to his father’s motorcycle?”
The biker’s expression changed.
“It’s in storage.”
She stared.
“You still have it?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you sold it.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“He left instructions.”
Her jaw tightened.
“More instructions.”
The biker nodded.
“He planned too much for a man who claimed paperwork was for cowards.”
She almost smiled.
“What instructions?”
“Don’t give it to his son.”
She blinked.
“What?”
“Not automatically.”
The biker put his hands in his pockets.
“He wrote that motorcycles aren’t inheritance.”
“They’re machines.”
“If the boy grows up and wants to ride, teach him correctly.”
“If he doesn’t, sell the bike and use the money for something he actually wants.”
The mother looked toward the fifth-floor windows.
“That sounds like him.”
“Yes.”
She folded her arms.
“Why didn’t you tell me any of this?”
The question contained four years.
The biker knew.
His answer was not defensive.
“Because I was angry.”
She looked toward him.
“At me?”
“Yes.”
The honesty surprised her.
He continued.
“You wouldn’t let me into the funeral.”
“You sent everything back.”
“I told myself you wanted us gone.”
“I told myself respecting that meant disappearing.”
He looked down.
“Truth is, part of me was relieved.”
Her face hardened.
“Relieved?”
“I didn’t want to stand in front of you and answer questions.”
“What questions?”
“Why he came to see me before he died.”
“Why he left things with me.”
“Why he didn’t tell you.”
The mother’s anger returned.
“Why didn’t he?”
The biker looked toward her.
“I think he was trying to protect you.”
“From what?”
“Him dying.”
She laughed bitterly.
“That worked well.”
“No.”
The biker nodded.
“It didn’t.”
“He had headaches.”
“He thought something was wrong.”
Her face changed.
“What?”
“He never had a diagnosis.”
“He just knew.”
The mother stared.
“He told me it was stress.”
“He told everybody that.”
“He went to a doctor?”
“Once.”
“When?”
“About a month before.”
“And?”
“They wanted imaging.”
The mother stopped breathing.
“He never went back.”
The biker lowered his eyes.
“Why?”
“He was scared.”
Her hands began shaking.
“He had a six-year-old son.”
“I know.”
“He had me.”
“I know.”
“And he didn’t go back?”
“No.”