He said he did not call anyone because calling had made things worse before. He said he knew the highway meant people.
He said he had seen bikes give rides to kids at the fair in town years ago. He thought one might stop. He thought a headlight might be a promise.
He said he had tried to lead June to the road and then hide so she would be found by someone who knew what to do.
He said he waited behind the blocks with the birds and listened for sirens.
Rivera did the proper thing with the proper forms.
The sheriff’s deputy arrived with a small smile that made him look very young. They offered Caleb choices and time to consider them.
I told him there would be no bright lights or loud voices. I told him there would be apples and quiet rooms and people who respected how fast hands can learn to trust.
He nodded and looked at June again. She put her fist on my vest and then opened it to show the patch like a sunrise. Caleb looked at the patch and nodded like he recognized a road sign.
Back at the hospital, a separate team spoke to Caleb while June watched cartoons about animals who make deals with the wind. Thomas turned his binder into a tent and said he needed a day.
He said placement together would be best if the court agreed. He said the court liked plans that looked like bridges instead of cliffs.
I signed papers that said I would follow rules that were older than my bike.
I promised to lock the cleaning cabinet and keep a list of new foods that work and turn off the television at a reasonable hour.
I took a class on schedules.
I took a class on safety that used pictures of living rooms and a soft voice. I took a class on grief where the instructor opened the door twice just to prove we could walk through it when we needed.
By the end of the week, June would sit in the sidecar with a helmet on her lap. Caleb would check the straps like a mechanic. I would start the engine for a minute and let the sound wash the dust off our hearts.
Thomas called me the next morning with news like a shelf finally holding.
The court would allow temporary guardianship while they reached out to possible relatives. The siblings would stay together for now.
He said there would be check ins. He said there would be a hearing. He said no one could promise the future, only build it one plank at a time.
We built breakfast first. Caleb cut toast into stars. June learned that bananas can be boats if you decide they are.
We built a bedtime that did not need to be brave. June made a nest in the corner, then slowly moved it toward the bed like a tide. Caleb lined up three flashlights and announced they would stand watch.
We built a ride around the block at the speed of trust. June waved with her whole body. Caleb smiled and did not apologize for it.
Some days we went to appointments where adults asked good questions. Some days we stayed home and learned the noises of our own house.
Rivera stopped by twice with the kind of hugs you give with your eyes.
The nurse from the ER wrote a note that said she had extra wool blankets if we needed them.
The clerk at the parts store set aside two tiny pairs of driving gloves because he believed in matching.
I learned that June likes the sound of rain but not thunder. I learned that Caleb counts doorways and then stops counting after the third one.
I learned that when the engine idles in the garage, both of them breathe in the same rhythm. I stopped the engine and they kept breathing that way for a while longer. That was new.
The hearing was in a room that smelled like pencils. The judge had a face that reminded me of a librarian who once let me keep a book for an extra week.
Thomas outlined the plan. Rivera talked about County 217 and careful decisions. A counselor spoke about June’s grip on my vest and how a grip can be a ladder.
The judge read everything and then read us. She said the best interest of children is not a poem but sometimes it reads like one. She approved the guardianship while the search for safe relatives continued.
She asked me if I understood that I would be a man in his eighties when these children were figuring out where the horizon hides. I said I understood that I would be there to point and maybe hold a flashlight.
We left with papers and a stack of magnet charts. We stopped by the mural with the swallows and thanked it with our eyes.
On Saturday the club rode over with plush toys strapped to chrome. The neighbors came out and pretended it was normal. We let them pretend all they wanted.
June picked a bear with one ear slightly lower than the other. Caleb chose a small dog that looked like it knew where the good food was buried.
We took the slow streets past the school, the park, the library, and the convenience store with the bell that rings even when you do not come in. People waved because motorcycles make you wave at strangers.
I did not give a speech. I do not make speeches. I put my hand on the tank and felt it warm through my glove.
Caleb asked if we would ever ride all the way back to Mile 214.
I said one day. I said we would bring chalk and write our names small where only we would know to look.
June held her bear and patted the sidecar twice. It has become a language. It means ready. It means safe. It means more.
We rode as the sun stretched across the roofs. The town became a collection of windows saying yes.
At the light on Second Street, Caleb leaned closer and said we should call this day something. He said Bright Mile Day sounded right.
I said the best names are the ones you can say every year. He nodded like a foreman approving a beam.
We turned onto our block without hurry.
The engine settled into a purr that could have been a lullaby if you were the kind of person who needs wheels under your lullabies.
I parked and cut the ignition.
The garage hummed for a second like it was telling a joke to itself. We sat and listened to a silence that belonged to us.
Inside, the kitchen smelled like cinnamon and an elaborate attempt at pancakes.
The house was not large enough for every future I wanted. It was large enough for dinner and blankets and a calendar with a new red circle.
June went to her nest and then changed her mind and climbed onto the bed.
Caleb turned off two of the flashlights and left one on because there is bravery and there is wisdom and sometimes they are the same thing.
Continue Reading 📘 Part 3 …
