Four.
Five.
Six.
The doors opened.
A nurse asked who he was visiting.
He gave his daughter's name.
The nurse checked the computer.
"Relationship?"
He hesitated.
"Father."
It had been nine years since he had used the word in a context involving her.
The nurse called the room.
Then looked at him.
"She's awake."
That was not permission.
He understood.
"Does she want me there?"
The nurse studied him.
Then returned to the phone.
A moment later:
"She says you can come in."
His knees nearly failed him.
He walked down the hallway.
Room 618.
Door partly open.
He stopped outside.
Through the narrow gap, he saw her.
Nine years had changed her.
Of course they had.
Her hair was shorter.
Her face thinner.
Hospital tape held an IV against one hand.
But she was still his daughter.
He recognized the way she slept even while awake, curled slightly to one side.
He recognized the small scar near her eyebrow from a bicycle crash at eleven.
He recognized the same stubborn chin.
She turned.
Their eyes met.
Neither spoke.
The biker's first instinct was to cross the room.
Hug her.
Tell her he was sorry.
Ask a hundred questions.
Promise everything.
Fix everything.
Instead, he remembered the letter.
Walk at her speed.
He stayed near the door.
"Hi."
His daughter stared at him.
Then laughed once.
A broken, disbelieving sound.
"That's what you've got?"
He nodded.
"For now."
She looked down at the blanket.
"Did she find you?"
"At the crosswalk."
His daughter's eyes filled.
"Of course."
He almost smiled.
"She asked six bikers to stop traffic."
"Sounds like her."
"Sounds like you."
That landed between them.
The daughter looked toward the window.
Her father stayed near the door.
After a long silence, she whispered:
"You can come closer."
He did.
Not to the bed.
To the chair beside it.
He sat.
His hands looked enormous against his knees.
"I read it."
"I figured."
"I didn't know."
"I know."
"About her."
"I know."
"About your husband."
"I know."
"About you being sick."
She nodded.