“Yes.”
Jim’s brows knit harder.
“There was some mess at the middle school,” he said. “Boys jumping him. Teachers pretending not to see. His mama worked nights. Nurse, I think.”
The doctor nodded once.
“That was him.”
Jim sat forward a little.
His joints protested.
His voice went flatter.
“You here to tell me we did something wrong?”
Rebecca blinked.
“No.”
“We had permission,” Jim said. “From his mother. We didn’t lay hands on any child. We walked him in, walked him out, and made sure everybody with eyes could see he wasn’t alone.”
“No one is accusing you of anything,” she said gently.
“Good.”
The doctor reached into his coat pocket.
His hand trembled just a little.
When he pulled it back out, he was holding an old photograph, edges softened by time, colors faded almost to dust.
He held it toward Jim.
Jim took it.
And the room shifted.
There he was.
Thirty years younger.
Thick in the shoulders. Dark beard not yet gray. Leather cut on his back. One hand resting on the shoulder of a skinny boy in an oversized child’s biker vest, the kid trying so hard to smile that it hurt to look at.
Around them stood a dozen riders in leather and denim, lined up in front of a row of bikes shining in the summer sun.
Jim stared.
Then he looked at the doctor.
No.
Then yes.
Then all at once.
“Jesus,” Jim whispered.
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