“I don’t know.”
“He said if he died before he introduced us, I should give it to whoever was wearing the president patch.”
The biker president looked down at the black wings on his vest.
“He said that?”
“Yes.”
“Did he tell you what was inside?”
“No.”
“Only that you’d know what to do.”
The president leaned back.
That was exactly the kind of infuriating mystery his dead brother would leave.
The mother smiled weakly.
“He also said you’d complain.”
“I am.”
“He predicted that too.”
The president’s eyes moved toward the door.
“Why were you in that parking lot?”
The mother closed her eyes.
“We were driving to the funeral.”
“I felt shaky.”
“Dizzy.”
“I thought I needed food.”
“We stopped.”
“I remember telling my daughter to stay buckled.”
“Then…”
Her face tightened.
“Nothing.”
The president nodded.
“She got her bicycle from the back.”
The mother’s eyes opened in alarm.
“She what?”
“It was folded behind the rear seat.”
“How did she—”
“She said she thought someone would notice her faster.”
The mother covered her face.
“Oh God.”
“She did exactly what you taught.”
“What?”
“Find an adult.”
The mother laughed weakly through tears.
“She found thirty-two.”
The president smiled.
“Efficient kid.”
The mother looked at him.
“She was alone.”
“For a little while.”
The president chose his words carefully.
“But she was not alone after that.”
The mother’s eyes filled again.
“Thank you.”
The president shook his head.
“We’re not doing that yet.”
“What?”
“You don’t owe gratitude because we did what anybody should.”
She studied him.
“That sounds like something my father would say.”
“Unfortunately.”
The little girl spent the rest of the night asleep in the waiting room between the female rider and the former medic.
At dawn, the club began dispersing.
Some had children.
Jobs.
Animals waiting at home.
But they left reluctantly.
Each one came past the waiting-room chair.
Nobody woke the child.
They simply looked.
Some shook their heads.
Some smiled.
One enormous rider with a braided beard left a sealed package of crackers on the table as though feeding a sleeping child required secrecy.
The gray-haired mechanic stared at the bent training wheel on the pink bicycle he had retrieved from the parking lot.
“This thing’s dangerous.”
The president looked at him.
“Fix it.”
“I already was.”
“Then why are you talking?”
The mechanic glared.
“Grief makes you unbearable.”
“Apparently.”
By 9:00 a.m., the mother was stable enough to go home later that day if additional tests remained normal.
The little girl woke at 8:12.
Her first question:
“Where’s Big Beard?”
The chapter president looked up.
“Who?”
“You.”
The female rider laughed.