On her first day of internship, Ray called.
“Don't fix everybody.”
She frowned.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“That's literally the job.”
“No.”
“Helping is the job.”
“Fixing is arrogant.”
Daisy was quiet.
“When did you get wise?”
“About seventy.”
“Late bloomer.”
“Yes.”
He continued.
“And Daisy?”
“Yeah?”
“Do not take everybody home.”
She laughed.
“Teresa warned me about you.”
“Smart woman.”
Ray aged.
Slowly at first.
Then suddenly.
At eighty-one, motorcycles became heavier.
He sold two.
Kept the black one.
At eighty-three, he stopped long-distance riding.
At eighty-four, he finally let Daisy ride the black motorcycle alone.
She was twenty-three.
Rebecca still complained.
Ray smiled.
“Now you know how I felt.”
Daisy pulled on the helmet.
“Ready?”
“No.”
She smiled.
“Good.”
“Fear reminds you to respect things.”
Ray stared.
“You do listen.”
“Occasionally.”
She rode carefully.
One lap around the empty charity warehouse lot.
Then stopped.
Ray sat in a folding chair.
His cane rested beside him.
Daisy removed her helmet.
“Well?”
He asked.
“I understand.”
“What?”
“Why you love it.”
Ray smiled.
“Good.”
Then Daisy pointed toward the scratched engine guard.
“You still never fixed that.”
“No.”
“It's been sixteen years.”
“Yeah.”
“You could barely see it now.”
“I can.”
Daisy looked at him.
He was not talking about the scratch.
At eighty-six, Ray's heart began failing.
Nothing sudden.
Nothing dramatic.
A long decline.
Daisy flew from Kansas whenever she could.
By then she worked as a child-placement supervisor.
Rebecca had become a grandmother.
Buttons lived inside a glass-front cabinet at Daisy's apartment, not because he was too precious to touch, but because one arm was genuinely close to falling off.
Ray teased her.
“Thought bears don't belong in museums.”
“He's retired.”
“Fair.”
One December, Daisy arrived in Colorado.
Ray was home.
Hospice care.
Christmas lights hung badly around the living-room window because Moose, now eighty-two himself, had installed them.
Daisy sat beside Ray.
His beard remained white.
Thinner.
Still unmistakable.
“You look terrible.”
Ray opened one eye.
“You flew eight hours to insult a dying man?”
“Tradition.”
“Good.”
She held his hand.
For a while neither spoke.
Then Ray whispered:
“You still have him?”
Daisy knew.
“Buttons?”
“Yes.”
“Of course.”
“Good.”
“You really worried?”
“No.”
Silence.