20 minutes tops. " "I I don't know. " Mom says, "We can take him home first. " Hawk offers. Patch can pick up the chair later. Fix it. Bring it back. Mom looks at me, uncertainty in her eyes.
"Please, Mom," I say. My chair pulls to the right. Patch can fix it. She sigh. Okay, but straight home and I'm coming with you.
Hawk nods. He helps mom get me into our car. The chair goes in the trunk, sticking out slightly. "We'll follow you," Hawk tells her. "Make sure you get home safe. " Mom doesn't answer.
She just gets in and starts the engine. As we pull away, I watch the bikers through the rear window. They mount their motorcycles in unison, engines roaring to life. "Who are they, Eli? " Mom asks, "Really? " "The Hell Angels," I say. "Everyone knows who they are. " "That's not what I meant. " I look back again.
The line of bikes follows us at a respectful distance. "They are the first people who ever stepped in," I say. The first ones who didn't look away. Mom's hands tighten on the steering wheel. They're dangerous men, Eli.
Not to me, I say. Not today. We pull into the apartment complex parking lot. The bikes rumble in behind us. Neighbors peek through window blinds.
Mom helps me out of the car. My side throbs where Cory kicked me. I try not to wse. Hawk approaches, respectful of mom's wary expression. We'll take the chair now if that's okay, he says.
Have it back before dark. Mom hesitates, then nod. Thank you, she says stiffly. For helping my son. Hawk's eyes find mine again.
Anytime, Eli. Anytime you need us. Patch takes my chair, examines the bent wheel more carefully in the sunlight. I'll make it better than new, he promises. You'll see.
I believe him. Mom helps me inside. Our apartment is small. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchen, living room combo. The couch becomes my temporary chair.
From the window, I watch the bikers leave. All except one. Hawk stays. His bike parked under the street light, standing guard. He's still out there, I tell mom.
She peers through the blinds. Why? What do they want? I don't know how to answer that. I don't understand it myself.
Maybe they just want to help, I say. Mom looks unconvinced. She closes the blinds. Hours pass. I do homework.
Mom makes dinner. We don't talk about what happened. We never do. At 7:00, engines rumble outside. Mom tenses.
I wheel my walker to the window. Patch is back with my wheelchair. It looks different. The chrome shines in the street light. The wheels look newer, stronger.
Can I go down? I ask mom. She shakes her head. I'll go. You stay here.
I watch from the window as she meets Patch and he shows her something on the chair. She nods. They talk for a minute more. When she comes back up, she's carrying my chair. Her expression is puzzled.
He fixed it. She says, "He replaced the wheels and he left this. " She hands me a folded piece of paper. I open it in messy handwriting. "Call if you need it anytime. " Below is a phone number and a signature patch. Mom watches me read it.