The biker attended graduation four years later.
He wore the skull-free shirt again.
It barely fit.
The Mother had to threaten him into replacing his boots.
The young woman graduated with honors.
Her final exhibition included portraits of ordinary people often judged by appearance.
Construction workers.
Nurses after night shifts.
Formerly incarcerated men.
Old women.
Teenagers with scars.
Motorcyclists.
One portrait dominated the final wall.
The biker.
Same composition as her first drawing at eight.
But now technically extraordinary.
Every wrinkle.
Every gray hair.
Every scar.
Same kindness in the eyes.
The title underneath:
THE MAN IN THE RAIN.
The biker stood before it.
Silent.
A stranger beside him said:
“Powerful face.”
The biker answered:
“Ugly bastard.”
The artist walked up behind him.
“He can hear you.”
He smiled.
“Good.”
The portrait later sold.
The buyer paid more money than the biker thought reasonable.
The young woman donated half to a trauma support program.
The other half she used for studio rent.
The biker approved.
Years passed.
The Mother’s hair silvered.
The biker eventually stopped riding long distances.
The artist moved to Boston, then returned to Maine.
She became known for portraiture.
Not famous in the celebrity sense.
Successful enough.
More importantly, still drawing.
Every birthday, she sent the biker something.
Sometimes serious.
Sometimes ridiculous.
At seventy-one, she drew him riding a mobility scooter with motorcycle handlebars.
He called her immediately.
“I hate you.”
She laughed.
“Frame it.”
He did.
At seventy-four, the biker developed heart trouble.
Not immediately fatal.
Enough to change things.
The artist visited.
He hated being visited as though sick.
So she pretended she needed motorcycle references for a painting.
They both knew.
Nobody said.
He showed her old photographs.
His Wife.
His first motorcycle.
His parents.
Club brothers now dead.
The original newspaper clipping remained preserved inside a frame in his study.
The artist noticed.
“You kept it.”
“Your mom gave me a copy.”
“You used to hate looking at it.”
He nodded.
“Different now.”
“How?”
The biker looked at the blurry wreck photograph.
“Used to see the woman I thought died.”
“Now?”
He smiled.
“I see your first family portrait.”
She laughed.
“That is dark.”
“Accurate.”
She looked closer.
Rain.
Emergency lights.
Tiny impossible future hidden inside the injured woman.
Her own future.
The artist touched the frame.
“Do you wish we found you sooner?”
The biker thought.
“No.”
She looked surprised.
“Why?”