Mason thought about it. "There is," he said. "Same job as the rest of us. Be kind when it's easy. Be brave when it's not. And if you ever see somebody who needs help and everybody else is looking away — don't look away."
Lily nodded, very solemn. "I can do that."
"I know you can," Mason said. "You already did."
Claire came over then and knelt down beside her daughter, and Lily showed her the patch, holding the jacket out like it was made of something precious. Claire touched it with one fingertip, and her eyes went bright.
"Well," she said, "look at you."
"Mom, I'm honorary," Lily said.
"Honorary," Claire repeated, and laughed — a real laugh, the kind that had been a long time coming. "Lily Bennett. Honorary Gray Wolf Rider."
Nadine packed up her sewing basket with the air of a woman whose work was done. "She's the only member who ever earned it before breakfast," she said. "That ought to count for something."
Caleb leaned over from the next table. "Does she get a vote at meetings?"
"She gets a vote," Nadine said firmly. "One vote. On matters of pancakes."
Lily considered this. "I accept," she said, and the whole diner laughed, and the little wolf on her jacket caught the light.
She walked out into the diner like she was carrying something made of glass.
And every rider in the room — Caleb, and the big quiet ones, and the ones with the tattoos — every one of them stood up a little straighter. Not because a child had a patch. Because a child who had been afraid had decided, right there in front of them, that she belonged.
Lily smiled, and the wolf on her jacket caught the light.
Chapter 18
The Ride Home
The morning of the ride dawned clear and cold, the kind of October morning that smells like woodsmoke and wet leaves.
Mason was at Millie's by six. The lot was already half full — bikes lined up in two neat rows, chrome winking in the early light, riders standing around with coffee cups steaming in their hands. This was the second leg of the charity ride, the one that mattered most: the run to the children's hospital, carrying the money the club had raised all year — money for the ward, for the families who slept in chairs beside small beds, for the things insurance never seemed to cover.
This year, the ride had a name. They'd voted on it at the last meeting, and the vote had been unanimous.
The Lily Ride.
Mason had tried to argue against it. "She's just a kid," he'd said. "Don't put that on her."
Caleb Dunn had looked at him over his coffee and said, "Mason. She walked into a diner and asked a room full of bikers for help, and she saved her mother. The ride's named after her. End of discussion."
So the ride was named after her. And by seven o'clock, the whole town seemed to have turned out to see it off — families on the sidewalk, the high school band with their instruments glinting, Millie in her apron holding a tray of biscuits like a general inspecting troops.
Mason walked the line, checking straps, checking tires, doing the things his hands knew how to do when his heart was too full for words. The money was in the saddlebag — a check, folded into an envelope, made out to the children's hospital. Forty thousand dollars. He'd counted it twice the night before and once that morning, and it still didn't seem real.
"Mason."
He turned. Claire was standing by his bike, holding her helmet in both hands like it was something breakable. She wore a leather jacket — his spare, a little big on her, the sleeves pushed up — and her hair was pulled back in a braid. She looked nervous. She looked, Mason thought, like she had the morning of the very first ride, twenty-four years ago, when she'd been all elbows and excitement and he'd been terrified she'd change her mind.
"You sure?" he said.
She nodded. "I'm sure. It's been a long time, but I remember how." A small smile. "You remember how, too, I hope."