Hank poured me coffee. « I was heading east on Route 40 around seven. Middle of nowhere. I see this old guy walking on the shoulder in slippers and a cardigan. No hat. Already getting hot. I pulled over. He said he was fine, said he was going home. Gave me an address. Said his wife was waiting, that he’d been at work and needed to get back before dinner. »
My throat tightened. That was our old house. The one we’d sold fifteen years ago. The one where my mother died.
« I didn’t know he had dementia at first. Seemed a little confused, but fine. Had an extra helmet. He climbed right on. Seemed excited about it. »
The third biker, vest reading « Rabbit, » spoke up. « Hank called us about twenty minutes in. We met at a rest stop. »
« That’s when I realized something was wrong, » Hank said. « He kept asking where Margaret was. Got upset because he couldn’t remember the house number. I checked his wallet. Found the facility card. Called them. They said you’d been notified and gave me your number. »
« But that was hours ago. Why didn’t you take him back? »
The three bikers exchanged looks.
« Because he was happy, » Bear said simply. « Happiest old man I’ve ever seen. Kept talking about how he hadn’t been on a motorcycle in forty years. About how good the wind felt. »
« We stopped for lunch, » Rabbit added. « He told us about meeting your mom. About you and your sister. His job at the factory. He was sharp as a tack for about an hour. Like the fog lifted. »
« Then it would come back, » Hank said. « But when we started riding again, he’d settle down. So we just kept riding. Took him places. A lake. A lookout point. An old veteran’s memorial because he said he’d served in the Navy. »
