The Boy knew none of this.
His mother knew only that the club wanted to invite him back.
She suspected something.
The Older Biker refused to explain.
“Bring him Saturday.”
“For what?”
“Barbecue.”
“You had a barbecue three weeks ago.”
“We eat often.”
The Mother narrowed her eyes.
The Older Biker remained expressionless.
She eventually agreed.
Saturday arrived warm and clear.
The Boy’s wheelchair-accessible van turned onto the road at four in the afternoon.
The club members immediately stopped talking.
The Older Biker stood beside the covered motorcycle.
A gray tarp concealed the sidecar.
The Boy rolled down the van ramp.
Blue jacket.
Black pants.
Sneakers.
He looked toward the line of bikers.
“Why does everybody look guilty?”
The Mother laughed.
The Older Biker did not.
“We need your opinion.”
“About what?”
He pointed toward the tarp.
The Boy rolled closer.
The Older Biker handed him the edge.
“You pull.”
The Boy looked suspicious.
“What is it?”
“Pull.”
The Boy grabbed the tarp.
He tugged.
Nothing.
The cover caught on a mirror.
A club member quickly freed it.
The Boy laughed.
“Very dramatic.”
The Older Biker muttered, “Was supposed to be.”
They tried again.
The tarp slid down.
The Boy stopped moving.
His hands froze on the push rims.
Nobody spoke.
Black motorcycle.
Custom sidecar.
Wide platform.
Folded ramp.
His chair-sized passenger area.
The Boy stared.
Then looked at the Older Biker.
Then back at the machine.
“What is that?”
The Older Biker suddenly seemed less comfortable facing a thirteen-year-old than he had facing men twice his size.
“Thought you might want a ride.”
The Boy stared.
“In that?”
“If you want.”
“With my chair?”
“Yes.”
The Boy rolled forward.
Slowly.
He examined everything.
The ramp.
The restraints.
The protective rail.
The black paint.
A small blue stripe ran along the lower bodywork.
Exactly the shade of his wheelchair frame.
He touched it.
The Older Biker watched.
The Boy looked up.
“You made this?”
The Older Biker glanced toward the club.
“We did.”
“How?”
“Badly at first.”
The Mechanic laughed.
The Boy smiled.
Then stopped.
His eyes became wet.
He looked down.
The Older Biker immediately looked away, giving him privacy without leaving.
The Mother covered her mouth.
One of the bikers turned toward the road because he did not want anyone seeing his face either.
The Boy ran one hand along the sidecar rail.
“You really built it for me?”
The Older Biker nodded.
“Every inch.”
The Boy looked toward the ramp.
“Can I…”
His voice broke.
He cleared it.
“Can I try?”
The Older Biker unfolded the ramp.
“Whenever you’re ready.”