He remembered.
“Oh.”
“How many did you want?”
“One.”
“Right.”
She pulled the blinds open fully.
“Apparently motorcycle people are bad with numbers.”
The boy looked confused.
Then he heard it.
Not engines yet.
Something outside.
A distant crowd.
Hospital staff moving toward windows.
Voices in the hallway.
He turned.
His mother wheeled him toward the glass.
The eastern sky had begun turning pale.
Below, near the far entrance, motorcycles were entering.
One.
Then another.
Then five.
Ten.
Twenty.
Long rows.
Chrome catching the first light.
Black motorcycles.
Red motorcycles.
Blue.
Old touring machines.
Custom bikes.
Small ones.
Massive ones.
The boy stared.
More came.
And more.
His mother watched his face.
She had not seen that expression in months.
Not happiness exactly.
Wonder.
“Mom.”
“Yes?”
“You said one.”
“I tried.”
“How many are there?”
“Too many.”
The boy laughed.
A real laugh.
It turned into a cough.
His mother reached instinctively.
He lifted one hand.
“I’m okay.”
They watched.
The motorcycles moved slowly beneath the building.
Nobody revved.
Nobody performed.
The engines alone created a low rolling sound.
Deep.
Layered.
The window vibrated faintly beneath the boy’s fingertips.
He placed both hands against the glass.
His eyes filled.
“That’s it.”
His mother swallowed.
“What?”
“The sound.”
The motorcycles kept coming.
The boy whispered:
“Dad.”
His mother looked away.
She had prepared herself for grief.
Not recognition.
He closed his eyes.
For several seconds he simply listened.
Then:
“Can they do it again?”
His mother laughed through tears.
“Probably not.”
“Why?”
“It’s a hospital.”
“Right.”
The boy kept smiling.
Then he noticed one figure walking toward the main entrance.
A massive man.
Shaved head.
Long gray beard.
Sleeveless black leather vest despite the cold.
The boy’s smile faded into curiosity.
“Who’s that?”
His mother knew.
She did not lie.
“Someone who knew Dad.”
The boy turned.
“Really knew him?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
She looked toward the hallway door.
“You can ask him.”
The boy became nervous.
“I look bad.”
His mother’s heart cracked.
“What?”
“I don’t look like the pictures Dad had.”
“What pictures?”
“The biker ones.”
“You are ten.”
“I know.”
“You’re sick.”
“I know.”
“You’re not auditioning for a motorcycle gang.”
He almost smiled.
Then looked down at his gray hoodie.
“Still.”
His mother knelt.
“Listen to me.”
He raised his eyes.
“You never have to look strong for somebody who came because you’re having a hard day.”
The boy stared.
She kissed his forehead.
“If he expects anything else, he leaves.”
A knock came at the door.
The gray-bearded biker entered alone.