The ear now sat slightly crooked.
The Little Girl stared.
The grandmother asked:
“Bad?”
The girl shook her head.
“No.”
“It looks different.”
The grandmother nodded.
“Repairs usually do.”
The Little Girl touched the seam.
“Will it hold?”
“Better than before.”
The girl smiled.
The Biker looked away.
Something about that sentence reached him unexpectedly.
The teenage boy saw.
Maybe he understood.
Probably not.
Not yet.
The Little Girl hugged the repaired bunny.
Then surprised everyone.
She held it toward the teenager.
He stared.
“What?”
“You can hold him.”
The teenager looked at the mother.
Then the Biker.
Then the girl.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Don't drop him.”
“I won’t.”
He accepted the stuffed rabbit with both hands.
Ridiculously careful.
The Little Girl watched.
The teenager turned the bunny slightly.
“What’s his name?”
The girl narrowed her eyes.
“That's private.”
“Okay.”
He returned it.
She hugged the toy.
Then looked toward the Biker.
“What's your name?”
He gave his road name instead.
The girl frowned.
“That isn’t a real name.”
“It’s real enough.”
“How did you get it?”
The Biker smiled.
“Long story.”
“I have time.”
Her mother laughed.
“No, you don't.”
The Little Girl groaned.
The Biker crouched.
“You come back to the diner someday, I’ll tell you.”
She pointed at him.
“You better.”
“I will.”
Then she moved toward the car.
Crutches.
Right foot.
Left leg.
Pause.
Again.
Everyone watched.
The Biker finally said:
“Don’t stare.”
The teenager immediately looked away.
The Little Girl heard.
She laughed.
“You can look.”
The Biker smiled.
“That a rule?”
“For now.”
She reached the car.
Her mother helped with the door.
The crutches went inside.
The bunny followed.
Before climbing in, the Little Girl turned.
“Hey.”
The teenager looked up.
She said:
“I forgive you.”