The car pulled away.
The biker stood beneath the parking lot light holding two drawings.
His brothers approached.
Nobody teased immediately.
That was how he knew they were emotional.
The largest one finally said:
“You crying?”
The Leader looked at him.
“Go inside.”
“Definitely crying.”
“Inside.”
Another biker looked at the drawings.
“Kid’s good.”
The Leader nodded.
“Yeah.”
“Going to frame them?”
“No.”
Everyone stared.
The Leader looked toward the bar.
Then at the drawings.
“Maybe.”
They were framed by Monday.
Both.
The portrait went behind the bar.
Not where customers could touch.
The rescue drawing went into his home.
Above a small table that had belonged to his late Wife.
For the first week, the biker stopped every time he passed it.
He would look at the tiny baby drawn inside the rescued woman.
Alive.
The word kept returning.
Alive.
He slept better that week than he had in years.
Then Thursday afternoon, his phone rang.
Unknown number.
He answered.
“Hello?”
A child’s voice said:
“Your next drawing is ready.”
He smiled.
“How did you get my number?”
“Mom.”
In the background, the Mother shouted:
“I DID NOT GIVE HER PERMISSION TO CALL WITHOUT ASKING.”
The Little Girl whispered:
“She’s upset.”
“I can hear.”
The biker sat down.
“What did you draw?”
“A rabbit on your motorcycle.”
He stared.
“Why?”
“It looked funny.”
“How much?”
“Ten dollars.”
He laughed.
“Still robbery.”
“Do you want it?”
“Yes.”
A pause.
The girl said:
“I knew it.”
That became the beginning of Thursdays.
Not every week.
But often.
The Mother and Little Girl would stop by the bar’s restaurant section around six.
Never late.
Never into the drinking area.
The biker had a table near the window.
The first Thursday, the child brought the rabbit drawing.
The biker paid ten dollars.
Her Mother objected.
He said:
“Professional commission.”
The Little Girl immediately began drawing another.
Capitalism had been unleashed.
Over the next year, he accumulated eleven drawings.
Motorcycle in snow.
Motorcycle beside a lighthouse.
Biker with ridiculously oversized beard.
Biker trying to hold six puppies.
His late Wife recreated from an old photograph the Mother helped find online after he reluctantly shared her name.
That one he did not pay ten dollars for.
He tried paying a hundred.
The Little Girl refused.
“Gift.”
He did not argue.
He had learned.
The Mother became his friend.
Not in a dramatic way.
Ordinary.
She asked him for advice when her car made strange noises.
He asked her how to use online banking after years of pretending he understood.
The Little Girl became comfortable around the bikers.