The Little Girl sniffed.
“He looks scared.”
The teenager’s face changed when he heard that.
Because she was right.
He was scared.
Not of what he had done.
Not yet.
He was scared of consequences.
Scared of the Biker.
Scared of the watching crowd.
Scared somebody had recorded him.
Scared his parents would find out.
Scared one stupid second had become public.
Fear and remorse were not identical.
But sometimes remorse began only after fear forced somebody to stop moving long enough to look back.
The Little Girl’s mother arrived.
She dropped beside her daughter.
“Oh my God.”
“I’m okay.”
“What happened?”
The mother checked her head.
Arms.
Knees.
Crutches.
The Little Girl said:
“He bumped me.”
The Biker corrected gently:
“He was running and hit her shoulder.”
The mother looked at the teenager.
The teenager immediately said:
“It was an accident.”
The mother’s face hardened.
The Biker raised one hand slightly.
Not silencing her.
Just signaling that the child remained frightened.
The mother noticed.
She took a breath.
“Did she hit her head?”
“No.”
The Little Girl repeated:
“I’m okay.”
Her mother examined the injured leg.
No obvious change.
No swelling yet.
The Little Girl winced when she shifted.
“We’re calling the clinic.”
The child groaned.
“Mom.”
“We're calling.”
The Biker retrieved the fallen crutch.
He inspected it.
Aluminum shaft straight.
Rubber tip intact.
Hand grip scuffed.
He returned it.
The Little Girl took it.
The teenager shifted backward.
The Biker noticed.
“So.”
The teenager stopped.
One word.
Not loud.
The Biker stood.
The teenager suddenly seemed much younger.
The Biker was not enormous.
But he carried himself like somebody accustomed to not wasting movement.
He did not approach the teenager.
Did not threaten.
Did not point.
He simply asked:
“You planning to leave?”
The teenager swallowed.
“I already said it was an accident.”
“That wasn't my question.”
Silence.
The Little Girl looked up.
The Biker continued:
“You knocked somebody down.”
“You saw she was using crutches.”
“You saw her fall.”
“What did you do next?”
The teenager looked away.
“I stopped.”
“For three seconds.”
The Biker’s voice remained calm.