The boy held out his lunch money to the bikers with trembling hands. “Please help me find my dad,” he whispered. “What he pulled from his backpack next 8 years of unscent Father’s Day cards made four grown men drop everything and ride across three states without looking back.
” The leatherclad giant nearly stepped on him. Hawk jerked back, his boots skidding on the cracked asphalt of the bus terminal parking lot. “Whoa, kid! Where’d you come from? The boy couldn’t have been more than 8 years old. Messy brown hair, a backpack that looked two sizes too big, and eyes that held something no child’s eyes should hold. Desperation mixed with determination.
I need your help, the boy’s voice didn’t waver, even though his hand did as he held out a crumpled Ziploc bag filled with coins and a few dollar bills. I have money. Hawk glanced at his crew. Diesel, the massive bald man fixing his bike chain, had stopped mid turn. Wrench, the skinny mechanic with tattoos crawling up his neck, lowered his water bottle, and Santos, their unofficial leader with the salt and pepper beard, pushed his sunglasses up to get a better look.
“Kid, where are your parents?” Santos asked, his voice gruff, but not unkind. My mom’s at work. She works double shifts at the diner on Fifth Street. The boy took a step closer, thrusting the bag forward. I counted it. $47.35. It’s all my lunch money from this semester. I saved it. Diesel let out a low whistle. That’s a lot of skipped lunches, little man.
I need to get to Pine Ridge. The boy’s eyes darted between them, as if calculating which one might say yes first. Please, I think my dad’s there. The word dad hung in the air like smoke. Hawk crouched down to the boy’s level, his knees cracking. Up close, he could see the kid had been crying recently from the looks of the red rims around his eyes. Pine Ridge.
That’s 3 hours from here across county lines. Why do you think your dad’s there? The boy pulled his backpack around and unzipped it with shaking fingers. He produced a worn manila envelope, the kind that looked like it had been opened and resealed a hundred times. I write him letters. Every Father’s Day, every birthday, every Christmas, my mom told me he left when I was a baby because he was sick. Not body sick, but mind sick.
She said he loved me but couldn’t stay. wrench shifted uncomfortably. They all knew about that kind of sick. Half of them had battled their own demons with bottles, pills, or worse. Two days ago, I was playing in Mrs. Chen’s yard next door. She was talking to her daughter on the phone. The boy’s words came faster now, tumbling over each other.
She said she saw someone who looked just like the pictures my mom keeps hidden in the shoe box under her bed. a tall man with light eyes and a scar on his chin, working at the Pine Ridge homeless shelter. She said his name was Daniel. Santos exchanged a look with Hawk. Daniel. The kid had a name. What’s your name, son? Santos asked. Ethan
