Most meant nothing to Lily.
One showed a pair of wings wrapped around a small mountain silhouette.
The diner owner saw that patch.
His expression changed.
Not recognition exactly.
Something closer to concern.
The biker sank into the booth.
His hands would not stop shaking.
Lily’s mother wrapped him in two blankets.
The cook brought coffee.
The biker reached for it.
His fingers struck the mug.
Coffee spilled.
He cursed softly.
“Sorry.”
His voice was deep but weak.
Lily watched his hands.
He looked embarrassed.
That bothered her.
She knew what embarrassment looked like.
She had felt it when she fell during the Christmas concert the previous year.
Everyone had been kind.
That had somehow made it worse.
She went to her booth.
Picked up her pink lunchbox.
Her mother noticed.
“What are you doing?”
Lily opened it.
Inside was the small thermos her mother had filled that afternoon.
Chicken soup.
It was meant for the next day because Lily hated cafeteria chili.
Lily removed the thermos.
Her mother smiled faintly.
“You want to give him that?”
“He can’t hold the coffee.”
The biker heard.
He looked toward them.
“No.”
His voice was stronger now.
“That’s hers.”
Lily walked over.
“It’s soup.”
“I know what it is.”
“You look cold.”
A few people smiled.
The biker looked around as if asking whether somebody was going to rescue him from this negotiation.
Nobody did.
Lily placed the thermos on the table.
He shook his head.
“You keep it.”
“Mom can make more.”
The man looked at Lily’s mother.
She shrugged.
“Apparently I can.”
Lily unscrewed the lid.
Steam rose.
The biker swallowed.
He looked hungry.
Lily saw that.
She poured soup into the little cup.
Then pushed it toward him.
His hand moved.
Trembled badly.
He pulled it back.
Lily climbed onto the opposite seat.
She held the cup with both hands.
“You can drink it like this.”
The diner became very quiet.
The biker stared at her.
Not offended.
Not amused.
Something else.
He slowly wrapped his large hands around Lily’s smaller ones, careful not to crush them.
Then drank.
Only a little.
He stopped.
“Good.”
Lily smiled.
“My mom made it.”
“I guessed.”
“Why?”
“Because you look too young to cook this.”
“I can make toast.”
The biker nodded seriously.
“Important skill.”
He drank again.
Color slowly returned to his face.
Lily watched closely.
“What’s your name?”
Her mother almost interrupted.
The biker answered first.
“Everett.”
Lily pointed at herself.
“Lily.”
“Nice to meet you, Lily.”
“You shouldn’t ride motorcycles in snow.”
A surprised laugh escaped the truck driver.
Everett looked toward him.
Then back at Lily.