Then he left.
The next Thursday, my daughter was outside before four fifteen.
She claimed it was coincidence.
I did not argue.
Bear arrived.
The motorcycle remained beneath the maple.
This time, he walked toward the porch carrying a toolbox.
My daughter looked suspicious.
“What’s that?”
“Tools.”
“I know.”
“What for?”
Bear pointed toward her wheelchair.
“May I?”
My daughter looked at me.
Then at him.
“What?”
“Take measurements.”
“Why?”
“Because I'm curious.”
“That sounds suspicious.”
Bear smiled.
“Probably.”
She eventually allowed him.
He measured wheel spacing.
Seat height.
Armrest position.
The distance from her shoulders to the ground.
My daughter asked a hundred questions.
Bear answered maybe twenty.
The rest he ignored until she became annoyed enough to ask better ones.
Weeks passed.
Thursday became part of our lives.
Bear never appeared on other days.
He never called.
Never demanded progress.
If my daughter was angry, he accepted anger.
If she refused to come outside, he sat beneath the maple for fifteen minutes and left.
Once she screamed:
“I DON'T WANT TO TALK TODAY!”
Bear shouted from across the road:
“GOOD!”
Then started reading a newspaper.
My daughter stared through the window.
“What is wrong with him?”
I laughed.
“A lot, probably.”
Eventually she went outside anyway.
Bear introduced her to photographs.
Amputee runners.
Mechanics.
Cyclists.
A woman climbing mountains.
A teenager playing basketball.
A man riding a motorcycle with two prosthetic legs.
My daughter studied every picture.
“Are these people real?”
Bear looked offended.
“No, I hired actors.”
She rolled her eyes.
Then:
“Could I run?”
“Maybe.”
“That's not yes.”
“No.”
She frowned.
Bear explained:
“Maybe means we find out.”
My daughter hated maybe.
Maybe was what doctors used after the accident.
Maybe she would adapt.
Maybe nerves would settle.
Maybe phantom pain would improve.
Maybe prosthetics would become easier.
Bear seemed to understand.
He said:
“Maybe isn’t always uncertainty.”
“Sometimes it means nobody has tested the answer yet.”
That she liked better.
One afternoon, Bear told us to follow him.
His garage sat behind a modest house five miles away.
Motorcycle parts covered shelves.
Tools hung in immaculate rows.
Club photographs lined one wall.
In the center stood something covered beneath canvas.
Bear removed it.
A hand-powered adaptive tricycle.
Deep blue.
Low seat.
Large front wheel.
Hand crank.
Support straps.
Small chrome bell.
My daughter stared.
“Is that mine?”
Bear leaned against the workbench.
“Not yet.”
She looked offended.