The little girl had asked him six times whether her mother was going to die.
He had answered the same way every time.
“She’s breathing. The doctors are helping her. I don’t know more yet.”
The biker president appreciated that.
No false promises.
No comforting lie that might become another wound.
The girl looked at the photograph again.
Her grandfather was smiling in it.
Not the weak man she remembered from his final months.
Not the man with oxygen tubing and hollow cheeks.
This version of him had a thick gray beard, dark sunglasses, broad shoulders, and both arms wrapped around a much younger version of her.
She had been maybe three.
Her blonde hair had been tied into two ridiculous pigtails.
She was holding a toy dinosaur in one hand.
The biker president stared at the image.
He had known the dead man for almost four decades.
He had seen him punched.
Married.
Divorced.
Drunk.
Sober.
Broke.
Employed.
Lost.
Found.
Terrified.
Arrogant.
Gentle.
Impossible.
But he had never seen this version.
Grandfather.
The girl finally looked up.
“Were you really his brother?”
The president rubbed both hands together.
“Not by blood.”
She frowned.
“Then why did he call you brothers?”
“Because we chose each other.”
She considered that.
“Can you choose a brother?”
“Yes.”
“What if they’re annoying?”
“Usually they are.”
The female rider laughed quietly.
The girl looked at her.
“Were you his sister?”
“Yes.”
“Did Grandpa annoy you?”
“Constantly.”
The child seemed relieved.
Maybe because the dead should remain human.
The hospital doors opened.
A doctor walked toward them.
The little girl sat up so fast the blanket slipped.
The president rose.
The doctor looked at the child first.
“Your mom is awake.”
The girl’s entire face changed.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Can I see?”
“In a few minutes.”
“Is she dying?”
“No.”
The doctor crouched so the child did not have to look up.
“She had a serious medical problem, but she responded to treatment. We want to keep her here overnight and run more tests.”
The girl started crying again.
This time she smiled while she cried.
The president looked away.
The female rider put one hand on the child’s shoulder after the girl leaned toward her first.
The doctor stood.
“Who is the legal guardian if mother becomes unavailable?”
Every biker in the room went still.
The president answered carefully.
“We’re not.”
The doctor looked surprised.
The girl pointed toward the vest.
“They’re Grandpa’s family.”
The doctor nodded.
“Okay. We’ll contact the emergency information on her mother’s file if needed.”
The little girl grabbed the president’s sleeve.
“Don’t go.”
He looked down.
The same words she had said in the parking lot.
Do not leave me.