Mother, how could I have refused?
The smile faded.
Three months later, a car ran a stop sign and hit him. He died instantly.
Silence fell between us, heavy as a storm.
“I’m sorry,” Marc murmured.
“Since then, I’ve always felt pain whenever I see a motorcycle, but I promised myself I wouldn’t judge people by what they ride. Paul was a good, kind, helpful boy. It wasn’t the motorcycle that killed him, it was someone else’s recklessness.”
Marc nodded.
— My mother often said, “You never know what people carry in their history.”
He stood up, a little stiff, then opened the top case of his motorcycle. He took out an extra helmet and an old firefighter’s jacket, with reflective strips still visible.
— I’m going to make you a proposal.
