A girl showed up at our Saturday morning ride with a backpack full of flyers and asked if bikers go to funerals.
She couldn’t have been older than twelve. Brown hair in a messy ponytail. A black dress that looked borrowed from someone twice her size. Sneakers underneath because she didn’t own dress shoes.
She walked right up to the first bike in the lot. Held out a piece of paper.
“My dad’s funeral is Monday. Would you come?”
The rider, Hank, looked at the flyer. Then at the girl.
“Who’s your dad, honey?”
“Richard Moran. He died Wednesday. Heart attack. He was forty-four.”
She moved to the next bike. Same question. Same flyer. Then the next. Working her way through the parking lot like she was delivering newspapers.
I walked over. “Hey. I’m Jake. What’s your name?”
“Sophie.”
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