“He was terrible about that.”
“Unbearable.”
“Why didn’t you come over?”
The biker’s smile faded.
“Same problem.”
“Cowardice?”
“Yes.”
She shook her head.
“You’re six-four and built like a refrigerator.”
“Still works.”
“Apparently.”
He looked toward the parking lot.
“I followed your trail after the food line.”
The Mother’s face hardened.
“You followed us?”
“Not exactly.”
“That sounds like yes.”
“I asked around.”
“Why?”
“Because you were sleeping outside.”
The Mother crossed her arms.
“Plenty of people sleep outside.”
“Not my friend’s kid if I can do something.”
She fell silent.
The biker continued.
“I rode areas around the shelters.”
“Looking for us?”
“Yes.”
“How many nights?”
“Four.”
The Mother stared.
“You spent four nights riding around Albuquerque looking for two people you hadn't spoken to?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The biker's eyes moved toward the motel room.
“Your husband would've done worse for me.”
That answer settled differently.
The Mother leaned against the railing.
“What did he do?”
The biker was quiet.
Then told her.
Years earlier, after the biker’s younger sister died, he disappeared into drinking.
Lost work.
Stopped answering calls.
The Mother listened.
“Your husband came every morning.”
“For how long?”
“Three weeks.”
“Why?”
“No idea.”
The biker smiled.
“I told him to leave me alone.”
“Did he?”
“No.”
“That sounds like him.”
“He'd bring coffee.”
Another smile.
“Terrible coffee.”
The Mother laughed.
“Definitely him.”
The biker continued.
“One morning he took every bottle in my garage and dumped them.”
“You let him?”
“No.”
“What happened?”
“I tried stopping him.”
The Mother looked the biker up and down.
“My husband?”
“Yes.”
“Five-foot-ten?”
“Yes.”
“Accountant?”
“Yep.”
“Stopped you?”
“Not physically.”
The biker smiled.
“He said if I wanted another bottle, I'd have to walk over his unconscious body to get it.”
The Mother stopped laughing.
The biker looked toward the road.
“I couldn't.”
The Mother understood.
Her husband had never told her.
Not because it did not matter.
Maybe because he did not consider kindness something worth reporting.
The biker looked back.
“So when I saw his kid under a church awning with a backpack…”
He shrugged.
“I figured I owed a coffee.”
The Mother's eyes filled.
“Instead you stole his blanket.”
The biker groaned.
“Worst introduction possible.”
She laughed.
For the first time, both could laugh about it.
Then the Mother became serious.
“What happens tomorrow?”
The biker knew what she meant.
Not stories.