“Eleven months ago.”
“Were you there near the end?”
Her eyes filled again.
“No.”
The chapter president frowned.
“Why?”
“He stopped letting me come.”
“What?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“Why?”
“He said he looked too sick.”
“That’s also stupid.”
“Yes.”
“I fought with him.”
“He stopped answering.”
“I left messages.”
“The last one…”
She covered her face.
The president waited.
“The last message I left said if he wanted to die alone, he could.”
Her voice broke.
“I didn’t mean it.”
The chapter president stared at the floor.
“I was there.”
She looked.
“When?”
“The last night.”
The mother’s entire body stilled.
The president continued.
“He wasn’t alone.”
She closed her eyes.
“Thank you.”
“He talked.”
“About what?”
The chapter president swallowed.
“Mostly motorcycles.”
A broken laugh escaped her.
“Of course.”
“Then right before he died…”
He hesitated.
“He said ‘black wings.’”
The mother’s eyes opened.
She stared at the patch.
“Oh.”
“What?”
She looked toward the door.
“My daughter.”
The president leaned forward.
“What?”
“He taught her your patch.”
“When?”
“A few months ago.”
“He told her if anything happened to me and she couldn’t reach police or another trusted adult…”
She looked at him.
“…look for black wings.”
The chapter president could not speak.
“He trusted us.”
The mother nodded.
“He said you were idiots.”
The president’s eyes widened.
She smiled.
“But safe idiots.”
He laughed so suddenly that a nurse passing the door glanced in.
The mother laughed too.
Then both stopped because laughter beside death sometimes feels disloyal even when it is exactly what the dead person would want.
The mother looked toward the hall.
“He told her she could trust you before he ever told you she existed.”
The chapter president stared at his hands.
“That sounds like something I’m going to stay angry about.”
“You can.”
“He’s dead.”
“You can still be angry.”
The president nodded.
Then the mother said:
“There’s something else.”
He looked up.
“My father left something for your club.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t?”
“He gave me a key.”
“To what?”
“A storage unit.”
The chapter president frowned.
“When?”
“Two months ago.”