"If I hadn't gotten sick again, I don't know if I would've sent that letter."
The biker stared at the road ahead.
"Maybe not."
"Does that bother you?"
He thought.
"Used to."
"And now?"
"Doesn't matter why the door opened."
She was silent.
He continued.
"Matters what we did after."
His daughter smiled on the other end.
"You've gotten annoyingly wise."
"Age."
"No."
"Therapy."
He groaned.
His daughter had convinced him to try counseling three years earlier.
He claimed it did nothing.
Then quoted his therapist constantly.
She enjoyed pointing this out.
A decade after the first crosswalk morning, Maple Ridge replaced the old crossing signal.
The city widened the curb.
Added longer pedestrian timing.
Installed accessible push buttons.
The granddaughter was nineteen now.
Home from college.
She visited the old school with her mother and grandfather.
Children crossed safely.
A crossing guard stood in a bright vest.
Traffic waited.
The granddaughter stood at the curb.
"No butterflies."
The grandfather looked around.
"What?"
"The new signal."
He laughed.
"City budget."
She reached into her bag.
Removed a butterfly sticker.
Her mother stared.
"You carry those now?"
"Grandpa does."
The girl pressed the sticker onto the back of her own phone case instead.
"Better."
They crossed together.
The granddaughter moved with crutches now.
Her grandfather walked beside her.
Not ahead.
Her mother on the other side.
Halfway across, the grandfather slowed unnecessarily.
The granddaughter looked at him.
"I'm fine."
"I know."
"Then why are you walking like you're ninety?"
"Matching your pace."
"My pace is faster than this."
He smiled.
"Then lead."
She did.
He followed.
On the opposite sidewalk stood the small diner.
Still open.
The motorcycle club still met there, though fewer original members remained.
Age had stolen some.
Illness others.
One had moved south.
Another no longer rode but arrived in a truck and pretended that counted.
They entered.
The waitress knew everyone.
The granddaughter ordered pancakes.
Her grandfather frowned.
"You still eat like you're eight."
"You still wear the same vest."
He touched the bear patch.
"Quality."
His daughter sat across from him.
She looked healthy.
Older.
Alive.
The biker sometimes stared at her too long because part of him still expected the nine missing years to return and steal everything again.
She knew.
Occasionally she let him.
That morning, the granddaughter asked: