“Leak.”
The Mother stared.
“No.”
“Maybe fuel.”
He looked toward the blanket.
“Fabric picked it up.”
She remembered moving the blanket earlier when the Little Boy rolled over.
One corner might have touched the pavement.
The strange smell.
The popping sound.
The scorch mark.
Her face drained.
“Oh God.”
The Little Boy looked up.
“What happened?”
The Mother could not answer.
The biker did.
“Nothing yet.”
His voice softened dramatically when speaking to the child.
“That’s the important part.”
The Little Boy looked at the ruined blanket.
“Can I have it?”
“Not right now.”
His lip trembled.
“It’s mine.”
“I know.”
The biker seemed to understand immediately that this was not simply fabric.
He looked toward the motorcycle.
A thick leather riding jacket was strapped across the rear seat.
He walked over.
The Mother watched suspiciously.
The biker unfastened it.
Heavy black leather.
Older than the vest he wore.
The elbows were worn.
The collar soft from years of use.
He carried it back.
Then crouched several feet from the Little Boy.
He did not approach without asking.
“This one’s warmer.”
The Little Boy stared.
The biker held it out.
“Want it?”
The boy looked at his mother.
She looked at the jacket.
Then the biker.
Her anger had not disappeared.
But danger had rearranged itself.
She nodded.
The biker handed the jacket to her rather than touching the child.
The Mother wrapped it around the Little Boy.
It swallowed him.
The sleeves hung well beyond his hands.
The leather covered his shoulders, torso, and most of his legs.
The Little Boy pulled the collar close.
“It smells funny.”
The biker almost smiled.
“Motorcycle.”
The Boy sniffed again.
“And coffee.”
“That too.”
The Mother adjusted the collar.
Then stopped.
There was stitching inside.
Small.
Uneven.
Old.
Not a manufacturer’s label.
A name sewn by hand into the lining.
The Mother stared.
Everything inside her seemed to fall silent.
She touched the letters.
Once.
Then again.
The name did not change.
She knew it.
She had written it on birthday cards.
Signed it on mortgage papers.
Seen it printed on hospital forms.
Spoken it in anger.
Whispered it in love.
Cried it into a pillow three years earlier after a doctor told her there was nothing else they could do.
The Little Boy looked up.
“Mom?”
She did not answer.
The biker saw her face.
His own expression changed.
The Mother slowly raised her eyes.
“That name…”
The biker remained completely still.
Her hand clenched around the jacket collar.
“Where did you get this?”
No answer.
The Mother stood.
The Little Boy remained wrapped in the jacket.
“I asked you where you got it.”
The biker looked toward the child.
Then toward the men across the road.