Hair had begun returning as a soft shadow across his scalp.
He touched it.
“Looks weird.”
His mother smiled.
“Looks expensive.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“I know.”
She placed the patch in his hand.
They left through a side exit because the boy did not want attention.
No motorcycle parade.
No cameras.
The gray-bearded biker believed the discharge would happen later in the week.
He was at the workshop.
Working on the same engine he had been fixing the morning the phone rang months before.
A truck stopped outside.
He barely noticed.
Then the door opened.
The boy walked in.
Walked.
Not wheelchair.
Not carried.
Slow.
Thin.
Masked because doctors still wanted precautions.
But walking.
The biker dropped his wrench again.
The boy stopped.
“Do you always drop tools when you see me?”
The biker stared.
His eyes filled.
“What are you doing here?”
“Escaping.”
The mother entered behind him.
“Legally.”
The biker looked toward her.
She nodded.
“Discharged.”
He covered his mouth.
The boy reached into his hoodie pocket.
Pulled out the patch.
“You promised.”
The biker wiped his face roughly.
“I did.”
He walked toward the steel locker.
Opened it.
Removed the father’s vest.
The boy took it.
It was too heavy for him to hold comfortably.
The biker supported one side without asking.
Together they laid it across the workbench.
The empty rectangle where the patch had once been was visible.
The boy touched it.
“Did Dad take this off himself?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He wanted you to have the choice.”
The boy looked toward his mother.
Then back.
“I want it here.”
The biker nodded.
“Okay.”
He opened a drawer.
Needle.
Thread.
The boy looked horrified.
“You sew?”
The biker looked offended.
“I contain multitudes.”
The mother laughed.
The biker threaded the needle.
Then stopped.
He handed it to the boy.
“Your patch.”
The boy stared.
“I don’t know how.”
“Neither did your dad.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
The mother folded her arms.
“This should go well.”
The boy pushed the needle through leather.
It barely moved.
The biker helped.
Together they made the first stitch.
Crooked.
The second was worse.
The boy smiled.
“Looks bad.”
“Your father would approve.”
For twenty minutes, they worked.
The mother sat nearby.
No one rushed.
When finished, the patch leaned slightly left.
The stitching was uneven.
The biker examined it.
“Terrible.”
The boy grinned.
“Perfect.”
The vest remained too large for him.
The biker hung it back inside the locker.
The boy frowned.
“I thought I could take it.”
The biker looked toward the mother.
She said:
“Not today.”
“Why?”