I opened it.
The father was standing there.
Alone.
For a second, neither of us spoke.
Then he smiled.
"My son's alive."
Those three words hit harder than anything he'd shouted beside the ambulance.
I leaned against the doorframe.
"He's okay?"
"He's got a long recovery."
He nodded.
"But he's here."
That was enough.
The father looked embarrassed.
"I owe you an apology."
"No."
"I screamed at you."
"Your kid was inside that ambulance."
"I tried to fight you."
"You were scared."
He looked down.
Then he said:
"You could've moved."
I nodded.
"You could've decided it wasn't your problem."
"Could've."
"Why didn't you?"
I thought about it.
Because the answer wasn't bravery.
It wasn't heroism.
It was something every old rider eventually learns.
You survive long enough on two wheels, and you learn to read roads differently.
Loose gravel.
Changing wind.
A car waiting too far forward at an intersection.
A trailer beginning to sway.
Tiny things.