“There’s this beach we used to go to. Before I had my bike, we’d take the train out early on Sunday mornings. Just the two of us. I’d let him off the leash and he’d run for hours. Chase seagulls he was never going to catch. Dig holes he was never going to finish. Just pure joy.”
He stroked Sergeant’s ears.
“He taught you how to live again.”
“He taught me everything. Loyalty. Forgiveness. How to love without expecting anything in return.” He paused. “My ex-wife left because I was too broken. Said I was too much work. But Sergeant never cared that I was broken. He loved me anyway. Every single day. No matter what.”
The train emerged from the tunnel. Sunlight flooded the car. The biker turned Sergeant toward the window.
“Look, buddy. We’re almost there. Can you see the light? Can you feel the sun?”
Sergeant’s tail twitched again. Weak but there.
“That’s my boy. Just a little longer.”
An old woman got on at the next stop. She looked at the biker, at the dog, at me sitting across from him. Then she walked over and sat down next to me.
“Is he okay?” she asked quietly.
The old woman’s eyes filled with tears. She reached into her purse and pulled out a small packet of tissues, handed them to the biker.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said hoarsely.
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