* * *

Mitch finishes his coffee and watches me as I write down the number of the only car-rental agency in this area. “They’ll pick me up; that’s what it says. You can head back now.”

“That’s okay. Let me drop you off.”

I really don’t want him to. I’m that certain that I’m not going to be renting a car, and I don’t want him to be a witness to it. My alternate plan is to get one of these truckers to take my last hundred dollars and let me ride with him. I’m trying not to think of how poorly that plan had worked before.

“I’m fine, Mitch. You need to get back home.”

Mitch swings his bad leg over the saddle but makes no move to start the motor. “I really don’t like just leaving you here.” I can’t see his eyes behind the aviator-style sunglasses he’s wearing. His red bandanna has slipped forward over his forehead. He looks tough, and can sound tough, but I know that he’s not. He didn’t have to tell me that he was a musician; he could have kept the Hell’s Angel persona, stuck with the impression he seems to want to make. We exchange cell numbers, carefully punching in the digits and saving, as if we’re going to stay in touch.

“Don’t you worry. I’ll be fine.” I step away from the motorcycle, give him space to maneuver.

He starts the engine, which comes to life with a heavy rumble, deafening beneath the gas station canopy. “Let me know what happens.”

“I will.” He’s got the bike pointed back the way we came.

“Wait.” I almost have to shout to be heard over the sound of the motorcycle’s roar.

Mitch wheels around to come back to my side.

“What happened? Your leg, I mean.” I’m not usually this rude, but given the circumstances of our meeting, this seems like a fact I should know about him, something as personal to him as the raw facts I’ve given him about myself are to me.

He doesn’t say anything at first, and I wonder if I’ve offended him with my sudden curiosity, or if he’s trying to come up with some smart remark like he’s done before.

“Nothing terribly interesting. Bone cancer. I was fifteen.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. If I’d been able to play football, I probably wouldn’t have played violin. Things happen. Things happen for a reason.”

“I guess.” But to me, losing a leg seems a harsh price to pay for discovering a musical talent. I don’t add that I can’t see the reason for my particular situation, because it seems childish to compare losing a dog to losing a leg, but it’s what I’m thinking.

Impulsively, I hug him, and then he’s gone.

* * *

Mack and I step into the spotlight. The music begins. I tap my cane against the floor and Mack rises to his hind legs and, in perfect time with the music, turns in a clockwise circle, then extends his right front paw to me and I take it, bowing to him. By the time he leaps into my arms three minutes later, the crowd is clapping wildly.