The Biker’s smile remained for another second.
Then disappeared.
“She was perfect.”
Silence settled between them.
The Cashier looked at the final bag.
“What happened?”
The words escaped before she could stop them.
The Biker looked down.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
The Cashier prepared to apologize.
Then he answered.
“This morning.”
Her breath caught.
The Biker looked toward the twelve dolls.
“We lost her this morning.”
The Cashier's fingers tightened around the counter.
“Oh God.”
The Biker nodded once.
She tried to speak.
Nothing came.
He continued before she could.
“She’d been getting worse.”
“We knew.”
“That doesn’t help.”
The Cashier shook her head.
“No.”
“No, I guess it doesn’t.”
He looked toward the front windows.
The other bikers waited outside beneath the lights.
One stood with his helmet against his chest.
Another leaned against a motorcycle, staring toward the store.
They knew.
All of them knew.
The Cashier suddenly understood why none of them came inside.
The Biker returned his attention to her.
“She made me promise something yesterday.”
The Cashier looked at the folded paper.
He removed it from his vest.
This time he opened it fully.
The handwriting was uneven.
Large childlike letters.
Some words misspelled.
Some crossed out.
At the top was a tiny drawing of a crown.
The Biker slid the paper across the counter.
The Cashier hesitated.
“Can I?”
He nodded.
She read.
Grandpa, if I go home before the girls do, please make sure everybody gets a princess. Nobody should have to be in the hospital without one.
Below that were twelve first names.
Only first names.
Some accompanied by tiny hearts.
One had a star.
One had a smiley face.
The Cashier stopped breathing normally.
At the bottom:
And don’t buy me one because I already got you.
The Cashier covered her mouth.
The Biker looked away.
She read the last sentence again.
Then looked at him.
His eyes were wet now.
He did not hide it.
“She wrote that?”
“Last night.”
The Cashier carefully placed the note on the counter.
“I’m so sorry.”
The Biker nodded.
“She fell asleep after.”
He paused.
“Never woke up.”
The Cashier looked down.
For a moment, the bright toy store blurred.
She blinked.
The Biker folded the note.
Very carefully.
Once.
Twice.
Then returned it to his vest.
The Cashier looked at the twelve gift bags.
“You came here today?”
“I promised.”
“You could have waited.”
The Biker shook his head.
“No.”
“Why?”
He considered.
Then:
“Because if I waited until tomorrow, I might keep waiting.”
The Cashier understood.
Grief turned simple things into mountains.
He had needed to do this before the promise became impossible to touch.
The Cashier leaned against the counter.
“What were their names?”
The Biker looked surprised.
“The girls.”
He touched the pocket holding the note.
He began naming them.
Not quickly.