“I know.”
“People aren't possessions.”
“I know.”
Rebecca nodded.
“Not everybody does.”
Ray looked toward Daisy through the kitchen window.
“She needs family.”
Rebecca's eyes softened.
“She already has some.”
Ray understood.
Something tightened in his throat.
He looked away.
“Don't get sentimental.”
“You're the one with the Santa beard.”
He glared.
Rebecca smiled.
By August, Daisy was preparing for Kansas.
The North Star Riders organized a going-away picnic.
Ray insisted it remain small.
Forty-seven motorcycles arrived.
That counted as small for them.
Daisy walked between bikes carrying Buttons.
Every rider knew her.
Nobody treated her like a mascot.
That had been Ray’s rule.
She was not “the homeless girl.”
Not “the Santa girl.”
Not “the brave kid.”
She was Daisy.
A child.
Allowed to become more than the worst night people knew about her.
Moose gave her a tiny leather vest.
No club patches.
Just one embroidered flower.
Daisy.
Ray objected.
“You made a seven-year-old biker vest?”
“She’s eight now.”
“That doesn't improve it.”
Daisy put it on.
Ray immediately changed his opinion.
“Fine.”
At sunset, Daisy found him near the black motorcycle.
The scratches from Christmas Eve remained.
One on the engine guard.
Another along the saddlebag.
“You never fixed it.”
Ray looked.
“Didn't feel like it.”
“You always fix scratches.”
“How do you know?”
“Moose told me.”
“Moose talks too much.”
Daisy touched the mark carefully.
“That's from when it fell on you?”
“Yes.”
“Because of me?”
“No.”
She looked up.
Ray corrected:
“That happened before you ran out.”
Daisy nodded.
Then pointed at a smaller scratch near the seat.
“What about that?”
Ray smiled.
“That one is from your boot.”
“When?”
“When you climbed into the ambulance parking lot and tried sitting on it even though everybody told you no.”
Daisy looked proud.
Ray sighed.
“I shouldn't have told you.”
“Are you fixing that one?”
“No.”
“Why?”
He considered.
“Reminds me somebody small can make a pretty big mark.”
Daisy hugged him.
Ray closed his eyes.
The move to Kansas went well.
Not perfectly.
Nothing real did.
Daisy cried the first night.
Called Ray at 1:14 a.m.
Rebecca apologized.
Ray said:
“Never apologize for a scared kid calling somebody.”
He stayed on the phone until Daisy slept.
Wednesday calls continued.
Exactly four o'clock.
Sometimes video.
Sometimes phone.
If Daisy had soccer practice, Wednesday moved to Thursday.
She hated breaking tradition.
Ray taught her traditions could bend without disappearing.
Christmas approached again.
One year since the gas station.
Daisy asked Rebecca:
“Can we go back?”
“To Colorado?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”