All those of little faith who did not think he’d go for it!
They must be turning in their graves or keening over walkers. Also the doctors who shook heads at him. The nurses who fussed with his linens as if treating him as an invalid would have him forget that he’s a grown man who had lifted others and carried them first across burning sands and later out of burning buildings.
He always knew that where the rubber meets the road is where he’d meet his maker.
He’d left the Rolex.
The aide can always get another motorcycle.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt © Lisa Fox