He didn’t talk to Eli. He didn’t touch him. He didn’t look at me.
I remember thinking the man had lost his mind. My son was screaming loud enough that people across the park had stopped to watch, and this stranger was drumming on his kneecap like he was waiting for a bus.
Then Eli’s hand moved.
Just his left hand, the one that had been clawing at the woodchips. It came up about six inches and landed on the leather. Flat. Palm down. And it stayed there.
I watched my son’s fingers spread out on that vest and press down, and I watched his shoulders come off his ears maybe half an inch, and I swear to you I stopped breathing.
The biker kept tapping. Same four beats. He started humming something underneath it, so low I could barely hear it over the screaming. Not a song exactly. Just a sound with a shape to it.
