“What are you two discussing?”
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He glanced at Dr. Harris, trying not to laugh.
“Secret.”
“Oh, really?”
“Doctor-patient confidentiality,” Dr. Harris said, smiling.
I smiled back, but I wasn’t entirely comfortable.
Drew had been talking constantly about motorcycles lately.
He wanted to know how engines worked, why bikers wore leather, and whether motorcycle clubs were like families.
I worried Dr. Harris was encouraging a dream Drew couldn’t possibly fulfill.
That evening, I asked my son what they’d been planning.
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“You’ll find out tomorrow.”
“Drew, I need to know you’re not doing anything dangerous.”
He rolled his eyes.
“Mom, I can barely walk to the bathroom. What dangerous thing am I going to do?”
I couldn’t argue with that.
The next afternoon, voices began gathering outside his room.
I heard heavy footsteps, laughter, and someone asking which door was Drew’s.
Then 12 men in leather vests walked inside.
They were big, tattooed, and carrying things I couldn’t identify at first.
