Nothing.
Then her mouth twitched.
Barely.
She quickly corrected her expression.
“That’s stupid.”
“Extremely.”
“I don’t want it.”
“Okay.”
That night, I checked on her before bed.
The duck sat beside her pillow.
I said nothing.
Thursday number three came.
At four fourteen, my daughter rolled into the hallway.
At four fifteen, thunder.
The biker arrived.
This time she did not hide.
She opened the front door herself.
I stood behind her.
The biker remained at the bottom of the porch.
My daughter said:
“Why do you keep coming?”
He leaned against the railing.
“Because you keep noticing.”
“I’m not getting on your motorcycle.”
“Didn't ask you.”
“I hate motorcycles.”
“I figured.”
“They’re stupid.”
“Some are.”
She frowned.
“You ride one.”
“Yes.”
“So yours is stupid.”
“Sometimes.”
My daughter almost smiled.
Almost.
Then:
“I’m not joining your motorcycle club.”
The biker looked thoughtful.
“You’d probably improve it.”
That one nearly got her.
She looked down.
Then up.
“Go away.”
The biker nodded.
“Yes, ma’am.”
He left immediately.
My daughter watched.
That night, she asked:
“What’s his name?”
I hesitated.
“I don’t know.”
“You talked to him.”
“Didn't ask.”
“That’s weird.”
“I was more interested in making sure he wasn't dangerous.”
“Is he?”
I thought of the way he stopped when I stepped between him and our porch.
The way he never argued.
“No.”
At least I did not think so.
The next morning, I asked around.
His name was Bear, though nobody seemed to call him anything else.
Fifty-five.
President of the Iron Lanterns motorcycle club.
The club had a reputation.
But not the one I expected.
Charity rides.
Hospital fundraisers.
Funeral escorts.
Toy drives.
They had once surrounded a bullied teenager’s house with motorcycles after threats were made against him.
Another year they rebuilt a disabled firefighter’s wheelchair ramp.
Bear himself had a reputation for appearing whenever somebody needed something nobody wanted to ask for.
The following Thursday arrived.
Four fifteen.
Nothing.
My daughter waited near the window.
Four twenty.
Still nothing.
She rolled away.
Then returned.
Four thirty.
She asked:
“Did you hear anything?”
“No.”
“Maybe his motorcycle broke.”
“Maybe.”
At four forty-five, she opened the curtain completely.
The maple tree stood empty.
At five:
“He said he'd come back.”
“He never said that.”
My daughter looked angry.
“He always does.”
I tried not to smile.
At five fifteen, somebody knocked.
My daughter spun her wheelchair around.