The girl shook her head.
“Not friends.”
The chapter president frowned.
She pointed at his back patch.
The black wings.
Then she looked beyond him.
At the others.
One by one, the riders had begun noticing the photograph.
The entire group was gathering.
The little girl whispered:
“Grandpa said if I was ever really scared and he couldn’t come…”
She pointed toward the wings.
“…find the people with these.”
The chapter president could not breathe.
The girl continued:
“He said the men and ladies with the black wings were his brothers and sisters.”
The president’s eyes filled.
Behind him, the old gray-bearded mechanic turned away and wiped his face.
The female rider sat directly on the asphalt.
Another biker cursed quietly and covered his eyes.
They had known the old man for thirty-eight years.
They knew the first motorcycle he wrecked.
The first woman he married.
The woman he divorced.
The exact brand of cigarettes he quit when he was forty-two.
The diner where he ordered the same breakfast every Sunday.
His favorite road through Colorado.
His least favorite road through Wyoming.
His blood type.
His allergies.
His embarrassing obsession with old western movies.
They had carried him out of bars when they were young.
Carried him out of a hospital when they were old.
And none of them knew he had a granddaughter.
The chapter president looked toward the silver sedan.
“Your mom…”
“That’s Grandpa’s daughter?”
The girl nodded.
“My mommy.”
The sirens grew louder.
The former medic called:
“She’s waking up a little.”
The girl tried to pedal toward the car.
The bent training wheel caught.
The bicycle jerked.
The chapter president reached, then stopped before touching.
“Can I help?”
The girl nodded.
He lifted the rear of the bicycle carefully.
The front wheel still worked.
The female rider pushed from the side.
Together they moved toward the sedan.
Paramedics arrived almost simultaneously.
The parking lot transformed.
Emergency lights.
Doors opening.
Commands.
Medical bags.
The riders stepped back automatically.
The girl tried to reach her mother.
A paramedic knelt.
“Sweetheart, I need you over here for a minute.”
The girl panicked.
“No!”
The chapter president lowered himself beside her.
“Your mom needs them.”
“She needs me.”
“She knows you’re here.”
“How?”
He looked toward the sedan.
“I’ll tell her.”
The girl stared.
“Promise?”
The word hurt.
He thought about the funeral.
The hospital.
The last promise he had never realized he was being asked to keep.
“I promise.”
She let the paramedic move her aside.
The chapter president approached the sedan only when given permission.
The mother’s eyes were partly open.
She was in her early thirties.
Pale.
Disoriented.
One paramedic spoke to her.
“Can you tell me your name?”