His blood counts had fallen overnight.
A fever complicated everything.
The medical team adjusted treatment.
The mother barely understood half the words despite months of practice.
The boy listened.
Children in hospitals learned medical language the way other children learned sports statistics.
When the doctor left, he looked toward the biker.
“Am I getting worse?”
The mother opened her mouth.
The biker did not.
This belonged to her.
She sat beside him.
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“We don’t know.”
“Can I die?”
The room stopped.
His mother’s face broke.
She wanted to say no.
Every cell in her body wanted to say no.
Instead she remembered what the biker had said.
His father had been afraid.
Brave people got scared.
Truth did not remove love.
She took her son’s hand.
“Yes.”
The boy looked at her.
She cried.
“Yes, sweetheart.”
“You could.”
His eyes filled.
“Okay.”
She almost laughed from pain.
“Okay?”
“I wanted you to tell me.”
She pressed his hand to her mouth.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For every time I didn’t.”
The boy looked toward the biker.
“Did Dad know he could die?”
The biker nodded.
“Everybody knows.”
“No.”
The child frowned.
“I mean really know.”
The biker thought.
“Near the end, yes.”
“Was he sad?”
“Yes.”
“About leaving?”
“Yes.”
“Did he think he’d see us again?”
The mother froze.
Religion had never been simple in their household.
The boy’s father believed differently depending on the day.
The biker smiled faintly.
“He told me he hoped there was something after.”
“What did you say?”
“That if there was, he’d probably owe somebody money.”
The boy laughed.
The mother did too.
Then the biker became serious.
“He said mostly he hoped you wouldn’t spend your life trying to get back to him.”
The boy stared.
“What does that mean?”
“He wanted you to go forward.”
The child looked down at the patch resting on his blanket.
“Even if I’m sick?”
“Especially then.”
The boy said nothing.
That afternoon, he was moved back to bed.
He slept fourteen hours.
Outside the hospital, the motorcycles were gone.
But the riders did not disappear.
One sent a package containing a tiny model motorcycle.
The mother almost refused it.
Then read the card.
Not for inheritance. Just because toys are fun.
She laughed.
The boy kept it on his windowsill.
Another rider sent photographs of his father nobody in the family possessed.
One showed the father at twenty-three, helping repair a stranger’s tire along a highway.
On the back:
He complained the entire time. Helped anyway.
Another:
The father wearing an apron at a barbecue.