The Cashier shook her head.
“Don’t thank me.”
She began slipping a crown into each bag.
The Biker helped.
His tattooed hands looked almost absurd holding pink glitter paper.
Yet somehow they belonged there perfectly.
When the last crown went into the final bag, the Biker looked toward the Supervisor, who had quietly come to stand near the end of the counter.
“Thank you too.”
The Supervisor nodded.
“You’re welcome.”
Then she asked:
“Will the hospital let you deliver tonight?”
The Biker looked at the clock.
“They know we’re coming.”
The Cashier frowned.
“We?”
He looked toward the window.
The bikers outside.
“They knew her too.”
The Cashier looked again.
Four men waited now.
Then another motorcycle entered the lot.
And another.
The Biker smiled faintly.
“She had them all trained.”
“How?”
“She'd call the clubhouse.”
The Cashier laughed.
“She called a biker clubhouse?”
“Every Tuesday.”
“For what?”
“Tea party.”
The Cashier stared.
He nodded seriously.
“Video call.”
“Six grown men drinking coffee from tiny plastic cups because she said real princesses needed company.”
The Cashier laughed through tears.
The Biker smiled.
“She assigned everybody a title.”
“What were you?”
He looked offended.
“King.”
The Cashier laughed harder.
“What were the others?”
“Sir Grumpy.”
“Sir Baldy.”
“Sir Snores-a-Lot.”
The Cashier covered her mouth.
The Biker pointed toward one man outside.
“That one was Fairy Gary.”
The Cashier looked through the glass at a giant tattooed biker with a shaved head and massive shoulders.
“Fairy Gary?”
“Don't mention it.”
“Why?”
“He hates it.”
The man outside looked toward the window at that exact moment.
The Biker smiled.
The Cashier laughed again.
For a brief minute, grief shared the room with something warmer.
Not happiness.
Memory.
Maybe that was sometimes close enough.
The Biker gathered the bags.
Six in each hand.
The Cashier worried the handles would break.
“Wait.”
She found two larger reusable store bags.
They reinforced the smaller bags inside.
The Biker tested the weight.
“Better.”
The Cashier came around the counter.
Something inside her would not let him leave yet.
She looked toward the photo in his wallet.
“What was she like?”
The Biker stopped.
Most people asked what happened.
Few asked who she was.
The question changed him.
He lowered the bags.
“She loved pancakes.”
The Cashier smiled.
“Good start.”
“Hated syrup.”
“Unacceptable.”
“I told her.”
The Biker smiled.
“She dipped pancakes in whipped cream.”
“She collected rocks.”
“Not pretty rocks.”
“Ugly rocks.”
“She said the ugly ones needed collections more.”
The Cashier laughed softly.
“She watched nature documentaries.”
“Only sharks.”
“Terrified of butterflies.”
“Could look at a shark eating a seal and never blink.”
“But one butterfly flew near her head and she screamed loud enough to scare a nurse.”
The Biker’s eyes brightened as he spoke.
The Cashier listened.
The little girl became more than a photograph.