I blinked, wiping a tear from my own cheek. “What do you mean?”
Rick snapped his fingers sharply. A burly rider stepped out from the pack, carrying an object covered by a dark cloth. He pulled the cloth away, revealing something blindingly bright pink.
At first, my brain couldn’t register the shape. Then, the realization hit me.
It was a custom-fitted motorcycle helmet. Painted in a brilliant, metallic hot pink with twin white racing stripes down the center—my absolute favorite color combination.
I stared at it, mesmerized. “What is that for?”
Rick held the helmet out toward me, offering it like a crown. “It belongs to you.”
My eyes widened to the size of saucers. “Mine?”
Every single formidable, leather-clad biker in my field of vision broke into a massive, encouraging smile. I reached out tentatively, as if the helmet might vanish, and took it from Rick’s hands. The fiberglass surface was covered in black sharpie ink. Dozens of signatures and scrawled messages covered every available inch.
Keep fighting, kid. You’ve got this. The whole state is riding with you. Toughest fighter we know.
My vision blurred entirely. The tears I had been fighting all morning finally broke loose.
