“So do I.”
He looked at her.
She continued:
“I just don’t want my son turned into a lesson if he dies.”
The biker became still.
“He won’t.”
She stared.
He corrected himself.
“I’m sorry.”
She nodded.
“Thank you.”
He took a breath.
“If he dies…”
The words hurt both.
“…he doesn’t owe anybody inspiration.”
The mother’s eyes filled.
“No.”
“He’s a kid.”
“Yes.”
“He can be angry.”
“Yes.”
“Scared.”
“Yes.”
“Unfair.”
She smiled through tears.
“He’s very good at unfair.”
“Good.”
The biker’s voice softened.
“And if he lives, he doesn’t owe anybody a miracle story either.”
The mother looked toward him.
“Just life.”
“Just life.”
The donor drive did not produce an immediate match.
That was important.
Real life did not reward effort on schedule.
Three more weeks passed.
The boy worsened.
Then stabilized.
Then worsened again.
He spent several days in intensive care after an infection.
The gray-bearded biker sat outside because visitors were restricted.
His motorcycle remained untouched at home.
He drove a truck now.
The boy’s mother slept in chairs.
A nurse once found the biker at three in the morning with his head bowed against a vending machine.
“Family?”
she asked.
He opened his eyes.
“Something like that.”
The nurse nodded.
Hospitals contained many versions of family.
On the fifth day, the boy returned to the oncology floor.
Weak.
Angry.
“Everybody keeps saying I’m strong.”
he complained.
The biker was sitting beside him.
“That sounds annoying.”
“It is.”
“Tell them to stop.”
“My mom says they mean well.”
“They probably do.”
The boy stared.
“Am I strong?”
The biker thought.
“Sometimes.”
The boy smiled.
“That’s better.”
“You’re also whiny.”
“Hey.”
“Bossy.”
“You came to my room.”
“True.”
“And you smell like coffee.”
The biker sniffed his shirt.
“That is slander.”
The boy grinned.
Then became serious.
“Were you strong when Dad died?”
“No.”
“What did you do?”
“Cried.”
“How much?”
“Embarrassing amount.”
“Did Dad see?”
“He was dead.”
The boy stared.
The biker realized the bluntness.
“Sorry.”
The boy shook his head.
“It’s okay.”
Then:
“Mom doesn’t like when people say dead.”
“I noticed.”
“She says passed away.”
“People say lots of things.”
“What do you say?”
“Depends.”
The biker leaned back.
“If somebody dies, I say they died.”
“Does that make you sad?”
“No.”
“The dying makes me sad.”
“The word doesn’t.”
The boy thought.
“I like that.”
He looked toward his mother sleeping in the chair.
“Don’t tell Mom.”
The biker whispered:
“Your secrets are getting expensive.”
Two days later, the transplant coordinator called.
There was a potential donor.
Not from the motorcycle event.