Over the next few days, Jake told us everything. How he’d chased the basketball. How he’d seen the motorcycle too late. How Marcus had braked and swerved, how the bike had clipped him but Marcus’s quick reaction had prevented a direct hit. How Marcus had been there, holding him, talking to him until the ambulance arrived.
“I heard you,” Jake told Marcus on day fifty. “In the coma. I heard you reading. I heard you talking about Danny. I wanted to wake up and tell you I was okay.”
“I got you something,” Marcus said. He handed Jake a leather vest. A small one. On the back, it said “HONORARY NOMAD.”
“You’re part of the family now, kid,” Marcus said. “You fought your way back. That takes courage.”
Jake hugged him. This twelve-year-old boy hugged the man who’d accidentally hurt him, because he understood what I’d taken months to learn: Marcus wasn’t the villain. He was a broken father who’d been given a second chance to save a boy.
That was two years ago. Jake’s fourteen now. Completely recovered. He plays baseball, does normal kid stuff. And every Sunday, Marcus comes over for dinner.
Jake calls him Uncle Marcus. They built that model motorcycle together. They work on Marcus’s real bike in our garage. And yes, Jake wants to ride someday. That terrifies me. But Marcus promised he’d teach him when he’s old enough, teach him respect for the machine, teach him safety.
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