I stared at him. “Sarah never mentioned a girl named Kaylee.”
“She didn’t know her personally.” He probably didn’t even remember me. But I remember her. He paused. “Can I tell you what happened?”
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We were sitting. I was on one side of Sarah’s grave. He was on the other.His name was Mike. A mechanic. Forty-seven years old. His daughter, Kaylee, had been diagnosed with leukemia at nine. Insurance provided some support, but it wasn’t enough. They sold the house. They worked tirelessly. They raised funds through his motorcycle club. But they were still $40,000 short.
