“Pulse is there.”
The chapter president looked at the girl.
“Your mom’s breathing.”
Her face collapsed with relief.
Then immediately tightened again.
“Is she dead?”
“No.”
He answered carefully.
“Not right now.”
He was not going to lie.
Not to a child.
The medic opened the passenger door.
Another rider waved toward the store entrance.
“Ambulance is coming.”
The chapter president heard sirens faintly in the distance.
The little girl wiped her nose on her sleeve.
The president glanced at the pink front basket.
Something white protruded beneath a small stuffed rabbit and a child’s water bottle.
A photograph.
Old.
Bent at the corners.
He would not have touched it.
But the girl followed his eyes.
“Grandpa.”
The chapter president froze.
“What?”
She pulled the photograph from the basket.
“My grandpa.”
She held it toward him.
He took it carefully.
Everything inside him stopped.
The picture had been taken maybe five years earlier.
A little blonde toddler sat on the shoulders of an older biker.
The man wore a faded black vest.
Gray beard.
Round sunglasses.
One hand held the child’s ankle.
The other was raised toward the camera with two fingers extended.
Laughing.
Alive.
The chapter president knew that face better than his own in some years.
They had buried him that afternoon.
His brother.
The biker who had died at 3:26 in the morning.
The man whose final clear words had been:
Black wings.
The president looked at the photograph.
Then at the little girl.
His mouth opened.
No sound.
One of the female riders approached.
“What?”
He turned the photo toward her.
She stared.
Her face changed instantly.
“No.”
The little girl looked between them.
“You know Grandpa?”
The chapter president slowly lowered himself again.
His knees hurt.
He barely felt it.
“What was your grandfather’s name?”
The girl answered.
The president closed his eyes.
It was him.
Not another man who resembled him.
Not coincidence.
The chapter president looked at the girl’s face again.
Now that he knew, he saw pieces.
The shape of her eyes.
The crooked lift on one side of her mouth.
The tiny crease between her eyebrows when she was scared.
The same crease the old biker had whenever he pretended not to worry.
The female rider covered her mouth.
“Oh my God.”
The little girl clutched the handlebars.
“Did Grandpa do something bad?”
The chapter president’s eyes opened.
“What?”
“You look scared.”
“No.”
His voice broke.
He cleared it.
“No, sweetheart.”
He held up the photograph.
“We were his friends.”