“You should look better.”
Several people laughed.
The driver did not.
“You’re right.”
Police sirens sounded in the distance.
Someone had called before the danger became clear.
Wade sighed.
“Perfect.”
Lauren studied him.
He did not seem frightened of police.
He seemed tired.
Sophie tilted her head.
“What’s on your arms?”
Lauren looked down at her.
“What?”
“The rough parts.”
Wade glanced at his tattoos.
“Scars.”
“And ink.”
Sophie smiled slightly.
“Tattoos?”
“Yeah.”
“What do they feel like?”
“Mostly skin.”
“That’s boring.”
For the first time Wade almost smiled.
“Sorry.”
Sophie extended one hand uncertainly.
Lauren immediately said:
“Sophie.”
Her daughter turned toward her.
“Can I?”
Lauren hesitated.
The question mattered.
Sophie was asking.
Not being moved.
Not being guided.
Not being protected without consultation.
Lauren looked at Wade.
He held out his left forearm but kept enough distance that Sophie would have to choose to reach.
“Only if she wants.”
Sophie stepped closer.
Her fingers touched his wrist.
The ink itself felt like nothing.
But beneath it, several scars formed raised uneven lines.
Wade described the images as she traced them.
“A chain.”
“What kind?”
“Motorcycle chain.”
“That sounds uncomfortable.”
“It broke once.”
“On you?”
“No.”
“Then why tattoo it?”
“Long story.”
She moved farther up his arm.
“A compass.”
“Where does it point?”
“North.”
“That’s not creative.”
Wade gave a quiet laugh.
“No.”
Her fingers found another shape near his wrist.
Raised scar tissue ran beneath old ink.
The tattoo showed a black bird.
One wing open.
The other folded awkwardly.
Sophie traced the difference.
“What’s this?”
“A bird.”
“What kind?”
“Raven.”
“Is it flying?”
“Sort of.”
She touched the damaged wing.
“One side feels different.”
Wade stopped breathing normally.
Sophie noticed.
“Why?”
“Scar.”
“Did the bird get hurt?”
The sidewalk had become quiet again.
Wade looked toward the pharmacy window.
Lauren saw something pass across his face.
Not embarrassment.
Something older.
Sophie asked another question.
“Where does it want to fly?”
Wade froze.
Hundreds of people had seen that tattoo.
Friends.
Customers.
Other bikers.
Doctors.
Police officers.
Women he had dated.
Mechanics leaning over engines beside him.
Nobody had ever asked that.
They asked what the initials meant.