Lily took it.
Her hand looked impossibly small around two of his fingers.
She examined his knuckles.
Then turned his hand slightly.
Her eyes found the long pale scar near his thumb.
“That one.”
Ray's smile faded.
“No.”
Lily looked up.
“No?”
“That one's old.”
“So?”
“Band-Aids are for new cuts.”
She considered his answer seriously.
Then said:
“Mommy says old hurts can still hurt.”
Ray stared.
Children were dangerous.
Not intentionally.
They simply walked through doors adults spent years barricading.
Lily peeled the protective strips away.
Ray did not stop her.
She placed the pink Band-Aid directly across the oldest part of the scar.
Pressed one end.
Then the other.
Smoothed it with both thumbs.
Satisfied, she patted his hand twice.
“There.”
Ray looked down.
A pink heart-covered Band-Aid sat across a scar he had carried for nineteen years.
He swallowed.
“I told you.”
His voice was rough.
“I’m not hurt.”
Lily looked into his face.
Not at his leather vest.
Not his tattoos.
Not his gray beard.
His eyes.
“My mommy says broken hearts need fixing too.”
Ray did not answer.
He could not.
The parking lot seemed suddenly too quiet.
Behind Lily, neon tubes began flickering to life along the diner roof.
Red.
Blue.
White.
Ray looked down at the Band-Aid again.
For one terrible second he saw another hand.
Older than Lily's.
Smaller than his.
Painted fingernails.
A silver ring.
His daughter Emily.
Twenty-three years old.
Laughing while covering a cut on his finger after he tried opening a bottle with a pocketknife.
“Dad, hold still.”
“That barely qualifies as blood.”
“You're impossible.”
“You waste Band-Aids.”
“They're three dollars.”
“Exactly.”
Then she had wrapped a cartoon Band-Aid around his thumb.
He remembered the color.
Yellow.
Little smiling suns.
He had complained for twenty minutes.
Then secretly left it there until it fell off.
Ray blinked hard.
The diner parking lot returned.
Lily still held his hand.
“You're crying.”
Ray cleared his throat.
“No.”
She looked unconvinced.
“My eyes leak sometimes.”
“That means crying.”
“Not necessarily.”
“What else?”
Ray searched.
“Wind.”
Lily looked around.
There was almost no wind.
“You're bad at lying.”
Ray laughed through the pressure in his throat.
“Yeah.”
“I've heard that.”
Lily squeezed one finger.
“Did somebody hurt your heart?”
Ray stared at her.
He could have said no.
Should have.
She was seven.
The truth did not belong on her shoulders.
So he gave her a smaller truth.
“My little girl went to heaven.”
Lily's expression changed immediately.
“Oh.”
Ray nodded.
“A long time ago.”
“Was she little like me?”
“She was when I met her.”
Lily thought about that.
Then:
“But she got bigger.”
Ray smiled.
“Yeah.”
“A lot bigger.”
“How old?”
“Twenty-three.”
Lily's eyes widened.
“That's old.”
Ray laughed.
“You keep saying things that would make grown women angry.”
She ignored that.
“Did she ride bikes?”
“Terribly.”
Lily gasped.
“Really?”
“She crashed into a mailbox once.”
Lily giggled.
Ray smiled.
“She blamed the mailbox.”
“That doesn't make sense.”
“I told her.”
“Did she have a pink bike?”
“No.”
“Purple?”
“Red.”
Lily nodded as if this seemed acceptable.
Then she looked at the Band-Aid.
“Maybe she wanted me to give you that.”
Ray's chest tightened again.
He took a slow breath.
“Maybe.”
The diner door opened behind them.
A woman hurried outside.
“Lily!”
The girl turned.
“Mom!”
Ray stood immediately.
The woman crossed the parking lot fast.
Early thirties.
Brown hair tied behind her neck.
Diner uniform beneath an open cardigan.
Name tag:
AMY
Relief hit her face first.
Then concern when she saw Ray standing beside Lily.
She moved between them almost automatically.
Ray respected that.
“She's okay.”
Amy looked at her daughter.
“What happened?”
“My chain fell.”
Amy saw the scrape.
“Oh, honey.”
She knelt.
“You told me you were going to ride beside the fence.”
“I did.”
“Then?”
“I turned too fast.”
Amy looked at Ray.
He pointed toward the bicycle.
“Chain slipped.”
“I put it back.”
Amy looked at him cautiously.
“Thank you.”
“Sure.”
Lily tugged her mother's sleeve.
“He fixed it.”
“I heard.”
“And I fixed him.”
Amy frowned.
“What?”
Lily pointed toward Ray's hand.
Amy looked.
Bright pink Band-Aid.
Ray suddenly felt ridiculous.
Amy looked from the Band-Aid to his face.
Then back to Lily.
“What did you do?”
“He had a broken heart.”
Amy froze.
Ray looked away.
Lily continued happily.
“His daughter is in heaven with Daddy.”
Amy's face softened immediately.
“Oh.”
Ray nodded once.
“Kids ask direct questions.”
Amy's eyes became wet.
“They do.”
Lily climbed onto her bicycle again.
“Watch!”
She began pedaling.
Amy immediately said:
“Slowly!”
Lily circled around the edge of the parking lot.
Once.
Then again.
The repaired chain held.
Ray watched without meaning to.
Amy stood beside him.
“I'm sorry if she said something inappropriate.”
“She didn't.”
“She has no filter.”
“Probably good.”
Amy smiled faintly.
“Her father died last year.”
Ray looked toward Lily.
“Car accident.”
“I'm sorry.”
“Thank you.”
Amy crossed her arms.
“She talks about him like he's still just at work.”
Ray understood.
“That helps?”
“Some days.”
“And others?”
Amy looked toward the diner.
“Nothing helps every day.”
Ray nodded.
No argument.
Lily rode past them.
“Look, Mom!”
“I see you.”
She circled again.
Ray said:
“She told me he carried Band-Aids.”
Amy smiled sadly.
“He carried half a pharmacy.”