The Cashier nodded.
She finished another doll.
Nine.
Then ten.
The Biker looked toward the front windows.
His motorcycle sat outside beneath the parking-lot lights.
A huge black touring bike.
The Cashier wondered how he planned to carry twelve gift bags.
“Do you have somebody helping you?”
she asked.
“Couple of brothers are coming.”
She assumed he meant family.
Then headlights moved across the glass.
Three motorcycles pulled into the lot.
Then another.
The riders parked beside his bike.
The Cashier stared.
The Biker noticed.
“They’re my brothers.”
She understood.
Not by blood.
A riding club.
The men remained outside.
None came inside.
They seemed to know he needed to finish this alone.
The Cashier tied the eleventh ribbon.
Only one doll remained.
She lifted it.
Blonde hair.
Blue dress.
Small plastic crown.
The Biker's expression changed immediately.
The Cashier saw it.
“This one special?”
He swallowed.
“That was hers.”
The Cashier looked down at the doll.
She understood before he explained.
The same type his granddaughter had loved.
She placed it into the final bag with extra care.
Not more tissue.
Not a bigger ribbon.
Exactly the same as the others.
Because he had asked.
Nobody gets one that looks better.
When she finished, twelve identical gift bags stood across the counter.
The Biker looked at them.
For the first time since he entered the store, he seemed unsure what to do next.
The Cashier pushed the receipt toward him.
He did not take it.
His attention remained on the bags.
She spoke softly.
“You said these were for little girls.”
He nodded.
The Cashier hesitated.
Then:
“Hospital?”
The Biker looked at her.
She immediately regretted asking.
But he did not seem offended.
He leaned both hands on the counter.
“Yes.”
The Cashier waited.
The Biker took a breath.
“Children’s hospital over in the city.”
His voice became quieter.
“My granddaughter spent most of the last year there.”
The Cashier looked toward his wallet.
The little wristband.
The photograph.
“I’m sorry.”
The Biker nodded.
“She made friends.”
He looked at the twelve bags.
“A lot of them.”
The Cashier did not speak.
The Biker continued.
“She hated being called brave.”
A faint smile touched his face.
“Everybody told her she was brave.”
“Doctors.”
“Nurses.”
“Family.”
“She’d get mad.”
The Cashier smiled slightly.
“What did she want to be called?”
“Princess.”
That surprised a laugh out of the Cashier.
The Biker smiled too.
“She said brave sounded like something adults told kids when they didn’t know what else to say.”
“Princess sounded better.”
The Cashier's eyes stung.
The Biker continued.
“She had this paper crown.”
“Made it herself.”
“She wore it during treatments.”
“She’d make the nurses bow.”
The Cashier laughed again.
“She sounds difficult.”
“She was.”