Nine years.
The Little Girl reached for the door handle.
Her Mother stopped her.
“Wait.”
The girl looked back.
“If he doesn’t remember…”
“I know.”
“If he doesn’t want to talk…”
“I know.”
“If anyone makes you uncomfortable—”
“Mom.”
The Mother stopped.
The Little Girl smiled faintly.
“You’re doing the thing.”
“What thing?”
“Talking until you feel less scared.”
The Mother stared.
Then laughed quietly.
“Where did you learn that?”
“You.”
Of course.
The Little Girl opened the door.
Rain hit immediately.
She squealed.
The Mother hurried around the front of the car with the umbrella.
Too late.
The pink jacket darkened across the shoulders.
The girl hugged the sketchbook underneath it.
“Careful.”
“I’m careful.”
They crossed the gravel.
Water collected in shallow potholes.
Motorcycle tires were slick with rain.
The bikers beneath the awning noticed them.
At first casually.
Then with confusion.
A Mother and little girl walking toward a biker bar in a storm caused questions.
The largest of the men straightened.
He had a long gray beard divided slightly at the center, muscular arms beneath a black T-shirt, and a leather vest covered in patches.
He looked toward the Mother.
Then the child.
The Little Girl looked past him.
“No.”
Her Mother whispered:
“What?”
“Not him.”
The men heard anyway.
One laughed.
“Kid’s got standards.”
The largest man looked offended.
“I’m charming.”
Another biker said:
“You frightened a waitress in Montana by asking for ketchup.”
“She was already nervous.”
“She dropped the bottle.”
“Glass was slippery.”
The Little Girl almost smiled.
Her Mother relaxed half an inch.
Then the girl saw another man near the motorcycles.
He stood partly outside the shelter of the awning, adjusting a waterproof cover over a saddlebag.
Broad shoulders.
Late fifties.
Long gray-blond beard.
Black bandana.
Weathered face.
Tattooed forearms.
Faded jeans.
Heavy boots.
Leather vest.
He turned when one of the others called something.
The Little Girl froze.
Her Mother felt it immediately.
“What?”
The girl whispered:
“Him.”
The Mother looked.
The man did not resemble the newspaper photograph clearly.
Nobody could after nine years.
The old image showed mostly silhouette.
But there was something.
The width of the shoulders.
The way he leaned slightly to one side.
The distinctive silver ring on his left hand.
The Mother felt the past rise so suddenly that her chest hurt.
The biker noticed them staring.
His brow furrowed.
The Little Girl began walking.
Her Mother almost stopped her.
Did not.
The child crossed the final distance alone.
The biker remained beside the motorcycle.
Rain ran from the edge of the awning.
He looked down at the pink raincoat.
Then at the sketchbook.