“No.”
Evan smiled.
“I didn’t ask whether you liked it.”
“I’m not welding your funeral into a gas tank.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re not dead.”
“Excellent observation.”
Tank turned away.
“Find another idea.”
Evan coughed.
It lasted long enough to change the mood.
When it ended, he wiped his mouth and said:
“Tank.”
“No.”
“My kid likes this bike.”
“Then finish it.”
Evan smiled sadly.
“You know I might not.”
Tank hated him for saying it.
Not really.
But grief often disguised itself as anger before death too.
Evan continued.
“Noah keeps asking what happens to people when they die.”
Tank said nothing.
“I don’t know what to tell him.”
“Neither do I.”
“Exactly.”
Evan walked toward the motorcycle.
He ran one hand over the unfinished tank.
“So give him something physical.”
Tank finally looked at him.
Evan tapped the left side.
“Put me there.”
“That’s insane.”
“Probably.”
“If the chamber leaks—”
“It won’t.”
“If somebody puts fuel in it—”
“They can’t.”
“We’ll isolate it.”
“Different neck.”
“Different path.”
Tank crossed his arms.
“You’ve been designing this.”
“For three months.”
“Without telling me?”
“I just told you.”
Tank cursed at him.
Evan laughed.
That laugh was one of the things Tank missed most.
Not because it was beautiful.
It was terrible.
Too loud.
Always slightly wheezing.
He laughed like embarrassment had never been invented.
Then Evan became serious.
“Let me ride inside the machine.”
Tank looked away.
“Don’t make me do this.”
“I’m asking because you’re the only one who’ll do it right.”
That was unfair.
They both knew it.
Tank eventually built the chamber.
Stainless steel.
Fully isolated.
Pressure-tested.
Separate filler neck.
No connection to fuel.
He welded it into the left half of the tank, then finished the outer shell so cleanly nobody could tell.
Evan watched the entire process.
At one point, he ran his fingertips over the weld.
“Good.”
Tank snapped:
“Don’t sound satisfied.”
“I am.”
“I hate this.”
“I know.”
“You owe me.”
Evan smiled.
“That’s why there’s another part.”
Tank had assumed he was joking.
He wasn’t.
Now, two years later, Noah closed the memorial cap.
His mother stepped closer.
She knelt beside him.
“You okay?”
Noah nodded.
His lower lip shook.
“Can we start it?”
Twenty-seven bikers looked toward Tank.
Tank looked at the motorcycle.
Everything important had been checked twice.
Fuel system complete.
Oil pressure primed.
Battery charged.
Electrical system tested.
Ignition correct.
No leaks.
He had delayed this moment for three months after finishing the bike.
Partly because he wanted Noah present.
Partly because he was afraid.
Evan had spent six years building something he never got to hear.
Starting it would complete the machine.
Completion felt too much like finality.
Atlas blocked Tank’s path again.
“You sure?”
Tank nodded.
“No.”
Atlas frowned.
Tank continued.
“But the bike is.”
That was enough.
He moved toward the controls.
Noah rested one palm against the tank.
“Tank?”