Then their son had been born.
Her husband rode less.
Then almost never.
At least that was what she believed.
When he died, the motorcycle disappeared from the garage within a week.
The leather vest disappeared too.
She assumed members of the old riding club had taken them.
She had been too exhausted to argue.
For four years, she had told herself that part of her husband’s life was finished.
Now her son stared toward a parking lot waiting for sunrise.
His mother sat beside him.
“You remember hearing Dad’s motorcycle?”
“A little.”
“You were six when he died.”
“I know.”
“You might remember photographs more than the sound.”
The boy looked at her.
“I remember.”
She did not argue.
“What did it sound like?”
He thought.
“Like thunder that knew where our house was.”
His mother closed her eyes.
Children sometimes said things adults spent years trying unsuccessfully to write.
She touched the blanket across his knees.
“You want one motorcycle.”
He nodded.
“Just past the window.”
“Outside the hospital?”
“Yes.”
“At sunrise?”
He looked embarrassed.
“If they let it.”
His mother smiled.
“I’ll ask.”
He returned his attention to the window.
“Don’t make them do it if it’s trouble.”
“I won’t.”
“And don’t tell everybody.”
That made her pause.
“Why?”
“Because then they’ll feel sorry.”
He said it without bitterness.
That was worse.
His mother reached up and touched the side of his head.
“You know people are allowed to care about you.”
“I know.”
“There’s a difference.”
“Between caring and feeling sorry?”
“Yes.”
The boy looked out at the paling sky.
“What is it?”
His mother did not have an answer good enough.
So she kissed his temple.
“I’ll tell you when I figure it out.”
A nurse heard about the request thirty minutes later.
Not because the mother told everybody.
She told one child-life specialist.
The child-life specialist told the charge nurse because hospital administration would need to approve anything involving a motorcycle near the building.
The charge nurse knew a hospital security supervisor who happened to ride.
The security supervisor knew a mechanic.
The mechanic knew somebody else.
That was how these things moved.
Not through official channels.
Through people.
At 6:18 a.m., a phone rang inside a cinder-block workshop thirty-seven miles away.
The gray-bearded biker was already awake.
He had been awake since four.
Men his age often blamed sleep problems on old injuries, bad mattresses, coffee, age, regret, or some mixture impossible to separate.
He stood alone beneath fluorescent lights, tightening bolts on an engine that had not run properly since September.