The biker nodded.
“That's why we were friends.”
He left.
The Mother slept for five straight hours.
When she woke, sunlight filled the motel room.
For one horrible second she forgot where she was.
Then she saw her son.
Bed.
Blanket supplied by the motel.
Father's jacket folded beside him.
Safe.
She began crying quietly.
Not because something was wrong.
Because nothing was wrong for exactly that moment.
The Little Boy opened his eyes.
“Mom?”
She wiped her face.
“Morning.”
“Are we still inside?”
“Yes.”
He smiled.
That small question almost destroyed her.
They showered.
The Boy spent twenty minutes under hot water.
The Mother eventually knocked.
“You're going to use the entire city supply.”
“No!”
She smiled.
Normal.
The word felt precious.
At ten, they reached the motorcycle garage.
It looked intimidating from outside.
Black bikes.
Metal doors.
Several large men.
A woman with tattooed arms welding something near the rear bay.
The Little Boy whispered:
“This place is awesome.”
The Mother whispered back:
“Don't touch anything.”
The huge biker emerged.
No leather jacket now because the Little Boy had it carefully folded inside a grocery bag.
The biker wore a dark work shirt.
He looked less frightening.
Slightly.
“Coffee?”
he asked.
“Yes.”
The Little Boy said, “Hot chocolate.”
The biker stared.
“We have coffee.”
“He's six.”
The biker looked toward another mechanic.
“Hot chocolate?”
The man shrugged.
“No.”
The Little Boy sighed theatrically.
“Worst clubhouse ever.”
Three bikers stared.
Then laughed.
Twenty minutes later somebody returned from a convenience store with hot chocolate.
The Mother sat inside the tiny office.
She stared at the paperwork.
Receipts in a coffee mug.
Invoices beneath magazines.
Bank statements mixed with parts catalogs.
Sticky notes everywhere.
The Mother looked toward the biker.
“This is a crime scene.”
He frowned.
“That bad?”
“How do you know whether customers paid?”
“We remember.”
“No, you don't.”
“Usually.”
She opened one drawer.
Found six overdue invoices.
Another.
Two payments recorded twice.
The Mother stared.
“You need professional help.”
The biker nodded.
“That's why you're here.”
She looked at him.
“Interview?”
He pointed toward the mess.
“Fix it.”
“That's the interview?”
“Yes.”
The Mother almost smiled.
She spent two hours organizing.
Found nearly two thousand dollars in unpaid invoices.
Discovered a supplier billing error.
Identified three subscriptions nobody remembered purchasing.
At noon, the biker leaned in the doorway.
“When can you start?”
She looked toward the Little Boy.
He sat at a table drawing motorcycles while three grown men argued about which drawing looked fastest.