“That sounds like something adults tell me not to say.”
“Adults are hypocrites.”
The Boy almost laughed.
“What did he say?”
“Not my story.”
The Boy stared.
“You called him.”
“Yes.”
“So you know.”
“Some.”
“Tell me.”
“No.”
The Boy became irritated.
“Why does everybody keep protecting him?”
The Older Biker crouched until they were closer to eye level.
“I’m not protecting him.”
“Then tell me.”
“I’m protecting your right to hear it from the man who owes you the answer.”
The Boy looked away.
The Biker tightened a strap.
“Want advice?”
“No.”
“You’re getting it.”
The Boy sighed.
The Older Biker continued.
“You don’t owe forgiveness because somebody feels guilty.”
The Boy looked back.
“You don’t owe anger forever either.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Yes, it does.”
The Biker checked the wheel lock.
“You can decide later.”
The Boy frowned.
“Everybody acts like I have to know.”
“You don’t.”
The Biker stood.
“You can be angry today.”
He moved toward the motorcycle.
“Curious tomorrow.”
He looked back.
“Both on Tuesday.”
The Boy smiled faintly.
“That sounded almost smart.”
“Don’t tell anybody.”
They rode.
This time farther.
Country road.
Fields.
A long curve near the river.
The Boy laughed every time the motorcycle accelerated gently out of a turn.
When they returned, the Father was not across the road.
The Boy looked anyway.
The Older Biker noticed.
Said nothing.
Three days later, the Boy asked his Mother to arrange a meeting.
Not at home.
Not the motel.
The clubhouse.
“Why there?”
The Mother asked.
The Boy shrugged.
“Feels like neutral ground.”
The Older Biker heard and laughed.
“Nothing neutral about this place.”
Still, he agreed.
The Father arrived fifteen minutes early.
Of course.
He wore jeans.
Work boots.
Plain gray shirt.
No baseball cap.
The Older Biker met him outside.
“You nervous?”
The Father laughed once.
“Is that a joke?”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
The Father frowned.
“Good?”
“Means you understand the meeting matters.”
The Older Biker opened the clubhouse door.
The Boy waited inside beside a long table.
His Mother sat farther back.
Not beside him.
The Father stopped when he saw his son.
The Boy looked older than he remembered.
Of course he did.
Almost two years.
The Father’s eyes immediately moved to the wheelchair.
Then away.
The Boy noticed.
His face hardened.
“Still can’t look at it?”
The Father stopped.
“No.”
He took a breath.
“I was trying not to stare.”
“It’s part of me.”