“Next morning.”
“They wouldn't tell me anything.”
“Privacy rules.”
“I wasn't family.”
He stared at the gravel.
“Called again two days later.”
“Same answer.”
The Mother whispered:
“I never knew.”
The biker shrugged.
“Didn't matter.”
“It mattered to me.”
He looked up.
She continued:
“I asked about you.”
“Police report said unidentified motorcyclist.”
“The local paper had that photograph.”
“Nobody knew who you were.”
The biker looked toward his brothers.
One smiled.
“We know him.”
The Mother laughed softly.
The biker said:
“I should've left a number.”
“You were in shock too.”
He scoffed.
“I wasn't hurt.”
“That doesn't mean you weren't affected.”
The biker glanced at her.
That sounded like something a therapist might say.
He disliked how correct it felt.
The Little Girl moved closer.
She held the portrait out.
“This is yours.”
The biker did not take it.
His hands remained on his knees.
“You keep it.”
“No.”
“Kid—”
“I made it for you.”
“I know.”
“So take it.”
He looked at the drawing.
Then her face.
“Nobody’s ever…”
His voice failed.
He tried again.
“Nobody's ever drawn me before.”
The Little Girl looked surprised.
“Never?”
“Not unless police sketch artists count.”
The Mother raised an eyebrow.
The biker smiled faintly.
“Joke.”
“Mostly.”
The girl held the sketchbook tighter.
“You can't have the whole book.”
“Wasn’t planning to steal it.”
“I can tear the page.”
The biker winced.
“No.”
“What?”
“Don't tear your drawing.”
“But it’s yours.”
The biker looked toward the bar.
One of his brothers disappeared inside.
Returned thirty seconds later with a small utility knife.
The biker stared.
“What?”
The other man shrugged.
“She can cut the page clean.”
The Little Girl accepted it.
Her Mother immediately said:
“I’ll do that.”
Good call.
The Mother carefully removed the portrait along the binding.
The Little Girl handed it to the biker.
This time he accepted.
Both hands.
Like something breakable.
He studied the portrait again.
His thumb hovered near the charcoal beard.
“Why’d you make me smiling?”
“You smiled in the newspaper.”
The biker frowned.
He looked at the clipping.
“No, I didn’t.”
The Little Girl pointed.
The photograph was blurry.
The face almost invisible.
She laughed.
“I know.”
The biker looked at her.
“You just made that up?”