“I hated that.”
“Did you stop?”
“Being positive?”
“Yes.”
“I was positive sometimes.”
“Angry sometimes.”
“Mean sometimes.”
“Funny occasionally.”
The girl smiled.
“What helped?”
He thought.
“People who didn’t need me to make them feel better.”
The gray-bearded biker stood outside the room listening.
He wiped his face once.
A nurse noticed.
Said nothing.
Afterward, the young man walked toward the large window.
The biker joined him.
“You did good.”
The young man frowned.
“Don’t.”
“Right.”
They stood.
The young man asked:
“Do you remember exactly where the bikes were?”
The biker pointed.
“Started there.”
“Wrapped around that road.”
“Police were furious.”
“You said everybody behaved.”
“They did.”
“Mostly.”
The young man smiled.
“What happened?”
“One guy parked in an ambulance zone.”
“What did you do?”
“Moved his motorcycle.”
“How?”
“Lifted it.”
The young man stared.
“You cannot lift a motorcycle.”
“Not anymore.”
“So that story might be true?”
The biker smiled.
“Some stories improve with age.”
The young man looked toward the road.
“Dad really asked for all that?”
“He asked for surround him.”
“I interpreted broadly.”
The young man laughed.
Then became quiet.
“I’m glad you did.”
The biker looked toward him.
The young man continued:
“I don’t remember much about that morning.”
“Really?”
“I remember the sound.”
“The patch.”
“You kneeling.”
“I remember thinking your beard was ridiculous.”
“Still is.”
“Correct.”
The biker smiled.
The young man looked toward the parking lot.
“I don’t remember all the bikes.”
“That’s okay.”
“I remember feeling like…”
He searched.
“What?”
“Like if I disappeared, a lot of people would notice.”
The biker’s expression broke.
The young man continued.
“That mattered.”
They stood silently.
Years passed.
The young man did not become a biker.
He became a pediatric physical therapist.
When he told the gray-bearded biker his career choice, the old man stared.
“You want to go back into hospitals voluntarily?”
“Yes.”
“You learned nothing.”
The young man smiled.
“Probably.”
He specialized in helping children regain mobility after long hospitalizations.
Some were oncology patients.
Some had trauma.
Some neurological conditions.
He never told every family his history.
Sometimes none.
He understood how exhausting inspirational professionals could become.
He simply worked.
One afternoon a seven-year-old refused to stand.
The child screamed:
“I can’t!”
The young therapist sat on the floor.
“Okay.”
The child stared.
“You’re supposed to make me.”
“No.”
“My mom says I have to.”
“You probably need to eventually.”
“But not this second.”
The child stopped crying from confusion.
The therapist smiled.
“Want to complain for five minutes first?”
The child nodded.
“Excellent.”
They complained together.