Only making it feel more stable.
The girl breathed.
Then nodded.
"Okay."
They continued.
When her shoes finally reached the opposite curb, she looked back at the road as if she had crossed something far wider than four lanes.
The bikers moved aside.
Traffic began again.
The girl turned toward the big man.
"Thank you."
He smiled.
"You're welcome."
Then she stepped closer.
Before he understood what she was doing, she wrapped both arms around his waist.
Her walker stood between them.
The biker froze.
The men behind him smiled.
The big man slowly rested one hand against the back of her denim jacket.
A gentle pat.
That was all.
The girl released him.
"Sorry."
He cleared his throat.
"You're apologizing too much."
She almost smiled.
The school bell rang.
The sound made her glance toward the entrance.
The biker followed her gaze.
Something bothered him.
Children were disappearing through the doors.
A few parents still stood near the curb.
A teacher hurried inside.
But nobody was coming toward this girl.
Nobody called her name.
Nobody waved.
Nobody looked relieved.
The biker frowned.
"Your mom waiting inside?"
The little girl's face changed.
Not fear.
Something quieter.
She looked down at the butterfly stickers.
The bikers behind him stopped talking.
The big man lowered himself again.
"Hey."
She looked at him.
"You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to."
The girl took one hand from the walker.
She reached behind herself and pulled the purple backpack around.
Slowly, she unzipped the front pocket.
Inside was a cream-colored envelope.
Worn at the corners.
Folded once.
Then flattened again.
The girl removed it carefully.
She looked at the bear patch on his vest.
Then at the envelope.
Finally, she held it toward him.
"My mom told me if I ever saw the man with the bear, I should give him this."
The biker did not take it immediately.
His eyes went to the front.
Five words had been written across it.
FOR THE MAN WITH THE BEAR PATCH
Beneath the sentence was a tiny butterfly drawn in blue ink.
His hand moved slowly.
He accepted the envelope.
The moment his thumb touched the paper, something inside him went still.
He knew that handwriting.
He knew the way the letter R leaned backward.
He knew the unusually round dots over every lowercase i.
He knew the habit of making capital M's too large.
Nine years vanished.
His daughter used to leave grocery lists on his refrigerator in that handwriting.
Birthday cards.
Notes taped to his motorcycle helmet.
Once, when she was fifteen, a note that read:
You are impossible. I love you anyway.
He had kept it for years.
The big biker stared at the envelope.
The little girl watched him.
His voice changed.
"What's your mother's name?"
She answered.
The other bikers saw the color leave his face.