The Man at the Gas Station
They stopped at a gas station ten miles outside Boulder City.
Jackson needed fuel.
Beatrice needed water.
Inside the station, a young cashier looked at the two of them.
"Everything okay?"
Jackson nodded.
"Pharmacy closes at six."
The cashier glanced at the clock.
5:46.
"You're cutting it close."
"We know."
The cashier handed Beatrice a bottle of water.
"On the house."
Beatrice shook her head.
"No."
"It's water."
"I can pay."
The cashier smiled.
"Then pay it forward."
Beatrice stared at him.
Jackson saw something change in her face.
She put a dollar on the counter.
The cashier tried to return it.
She refused.
"Then you pay it forward."
The cashier laughed.
"Deal."
Outside, Jackson noticed a pickup truck parked near the pumps.
A man leaned against it.
Forty years old.
Dark jacket.
Baseball cap.
Watching them.
Jackson recognized the look.
Trouble.
The man approached.
"Nice bike."
Jackson said nothing.
The man looked at Beatrice.
"Need a ride?"
"We have one," Jackson said.
The man smiled.
"I wasn't talking to you."
Jackson stepped slightly in front of Beatrice.
"Then you should be."
The man's smile disappeared.
"You got a problem?"
"No."
Jackson's voice remained calm.
"I just don't like strangers bothering my passenger."
The man looked at the club patch.
"Hells Angels?"
"Something like that."
The man nodded.
"Thought so."
He walked away.
Beatrice watched him.
"You knew him?"
"No."
"Then why did he leave?"
Jackson looked at the truck.
"Because he recognized the patch."
"Does that mean your club scares people?"
"Sometimes."
"Does it scare you?"
Jackson looked at her.
"Used to."
"Used to?"
"Now it reminds me of people I've lost."
They climbed back onto the Harley.
At 5:54, they reached Boulder City.
The pharmacy was three blocks away.
Jackson turned.
The neon sign was still on.
Beatrice's eyes filled with tears.
"Please."
Jackson twisted the throttle.
The Harley roared.
The Pharmacy
They arrived at 5:57.
Beatrice ran inside.
Jackson waited outside.
5:58.
5:59.
At exactly six, the pharmacist locked the door.
Jackson's heart dropped.
Beatrice was still inside.
Then the door opened.
She stepped out.
Holding a small white bag.
She pressed it against her chest.
"I got it."
Jackson smiled.
"Good."
Beatrice looked at him.
"Thank you."
He nodded.
Then she said,
"There's something else."
"What?"
"My doctor's office is closed."
"Okay."
"I need blood work before I can take the medication."
Jackson stared.
"When?"
"Tomorrow morning."
"Where?"
"Boulder City Medical Center."
She looked embarrassed.
"I was going to ask if you could..."
Jackson smiled.
"Tomorrow?"
She nodded.
"Yes."
"I'll take you."
Beatrice's eyes widened.
"You don't have to."
"I know."
"Jackson."
"What?"
"You don't even know me."
Jackson started the motorcycle.
"Neither did you this morning."
Beatrice smiled.
"Fair enough."
The House on Willow Street
Beatrice lived in a small white house at the end of Willow Street.
Jackson followed her there.
She unlocked the door.
Inside were photographs.
Hundreds of them.
Thomas.
Beatrice.
A young girl.
A farm.
Motorcycles.
Holidays.
Birthdays.
Life.
Jackson stood in front of one photograph.
Thomas was standing beside a Harley.
A younger Beatrice sat on the seat.
"You rode," Jackson said.
Beatrice nodded.
"Before Parkinson's."
"What happened?"
"Nothing dramatic."
She touched the photograph.
"Life happened."
They sat in the kitchen.
Beatrice made coffee.
Jackson watched her hands shake.
"How long?"
"Seven years."
"Thomas knew?"
"Yes."
"He helped?"
"He tried."
Beatrice looked at the photograph.
"He died before it got bad."
Jackson understood.
"Heart?"
"Pancreatic cancer."
Silence.
"How long?"
"Four months."
Jackson lowered his eyes.
"Diane had cancer too."
Beatrice looked at him.
"How long?"
"Two years."
"What did you do after?"
"I rode."
"Why?"
"Because I didn't know what else to do."
Beatrice nodded.
"That's what we do."
"What?"
"Survive the wrong way."
Jackson looked at her.
She smiled sadly.
"Sometimes survival becomes a habit."
Thomas's Letter
Beatrice disappeared into the bedroom.
When she returned, she held an envelope.
"This was Thomas's."
Jackson didn't touch it.
"Why are you showing me?"
"Because I think you're supposed to read it."