“Excuse me,” I said, my voice colder than I meant. “I’m Sarah’s husband. Can you tell me who you are?”
He turned slowly. He was tall, broad, beard down to his chest, tattoos up his arms. The kind of man who could intimidate anyone. But his eyes — red, swollen — told a different story.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I just needed to say thank you.”
“Thank you for what?”
He looked at the grave, then back at me. “Your wife saved my daughter’s life.”
My mind scrambled. “Sarah never mentioned you.”
“She didn’t know me,” he said. “Probably didn’t even remember. But I remember her.”
He motioned to the ground. “Can I tell you what happened?”
We sat — me on one side of her grave, him on the other.
His name was Mike. He was forty-seven, a mechanic, single dad. His daughter, Kaylee, had been diagnosed with leukemia at nine. Insurance covered part of it, but not enough. They sold their house, worked themselves raw, raised money through his motorcycle club — still forty thousand short.
“I was falling apart,” he said. “Watching her fade and knowing I couldn’t afford to save her.”
