The mother looked sharply toward him.
“What?”
The biker’s eyes shifted.
She stood.
“A few weeks?”
“Yes.”
“He saw you before he died?”
“Yes.”
Her face changed.
“My husband told me he hadn’t seen anyone from the club in almost a year.”
The biker looked toward the boy.
Then the mother.
“He lied.”
The mother’s jaw tightened.
The boy sensed it immediately.
“Mom.”
She closed her eyes.
“Not now.”
The biker lowered his head.
“I can leave.”
The boy tightened his grip on the patch.
“No.”
The mother looked toward her son.
He continued:
“I want to know.”
The mother stared at the biker.
“You have five minutes.”
The biker nodded.
“Fair.”
He turned toward the child.
“Your dad came to the workshop.”
“Why?”
“He wanted me to keep something.”
“The patch?”
“And a letter.”
The boy looked at his mother.
Then:
“For me?”
“Partly.”
The biker pulled a folded photocopy from another pocket.
The original remained safe.
He did not hand it over yet.
“Your dad made me promise something.”
The boy waited.
The biker’s voice broke slightly.
“He said if you ever got scared enough that the people who loved you couldn’t reach you…”
He paused.
The mother covered her mouth.
The biker continued.
“…and if you ever asked for the sound…”
He glanced through the window at nearly two hundred motorcycles.
“…we were supposed to surround you.”
The boy stared.
Nobody spoke.
Then the child looked toward the parking lot.
Back at the biker.
“Dad knew I’d get sick?”
“No.”
Immediate.
“No.”
The biker leaned closer.
“He didn’t know this.”
“Then why?”
“Because parents worry about things they can’t predict.”
The boy looked at his mother.
She nodded through tears.
“That part is true.”
The child looked down at the patch.
“Why didn’t Dad give it to me?”
“You were six.”
“So?”
The biker almost smiled.
“He wrote that if I gave a six-year-old leather colors, your mother would murder me.”
The boy laughed.
His mother did too despite herself.
The biker continued:
“He said you should decide who you become.”
“Not him.”
“Not me.”
“Not anybody outside that window.”
The boy rubbed the patch.
Then asked:
“Was Dad scared when he died?”
The mother froze.
She had never answered that question directly.
Her husband’s death had been sudden.
A ruptured aneurysm.
No warning anyone recognized until it was too late.
He collapsed at work.
Alive when the ambulance came.
Dead before midnight.
The boy had asked before.
Adults gave softer answers.
He was peaceful.
He wasn’t alone.
He knew you loved him.
All true.