The little boy had both arms wrapped around the handlebars by the time Hank Mercer noticed him.
Hank had stepped through the sliding doors of St. Andrew Children’s Hospital carrying two coffees and a paper bag containing the turkey sandwich he had already decided he did not want.
He stopped halfway across the covered entrance.
His motorcycle was parked exactly where he had left it.
Black tank.
Chrome engine.
Leather saddle.
Everything normal except for the child attached to it.
The boy looked about eight.
Maybe nine.
Small for his age.
Short brown hair.
Blue hooded sweatshirt.
Jeans.
Sneakers with one lace hanging loose.
His hands were wrapped around the grips so tightly that his knuckles had turned pale.
Hank glanced around.
No adult seemed to be watching him.
He walked closer.
The boy did not move.
Hank was fifty-eight years old and looked considerably more intimidating than he felt.
Years of road sun had darkened his face.
Gray threaded heavily through his close-cropped hair and beard.
His shoulders remained wide from decades of construction work, and the black leather vest over his charcoal T-shirt carried enough patches to make nervous strangers assume stories about him before he spoke.
Children rarely made that assumption.
Hank liked that about children.
He stopped a few feet away.
“Hey, buddy.”
The boy did not look at him.
His eyes remained fixed on the fuel tank.
Hank lowered one coffee onto the concrete planter beside him.
“You like the bike?”
The boy shook his head.
Hank smiled.
“No?”
Another shake.
That was unusual.
Most children who approached the Harley wanted to know how fast it went.
Or whether it was loud.
Or if Hank had ever raced somebody.
The boy finally looked up.
“It was my dad’s bike.”
Hank’s smile disappeared.
He glanced at the motorcycle.
Then at the boy.
“Your dad has one like it?”
The boy shook his head again.
“This one.”
Hank studied him.
The Harley had belonged to Hank for years.
He knew every bolt.
Every nick.
Every change.
Every repair.
He had rebuilt the transmission himself.
Replaced the exhaust twice.
Changed the grips three years earlier.
Installed a new battery last spring.
There was no confusion about ownership.
Hank crouched.
The boy still would not release the handlebars.
“What's your name?”
“Eli.”
“I'm Hank.”
No response.
Hank pointed toward the motorcycle.
“I've had this girl a long time, Eli.”
Eli’s eyes returned to the fuel tank.
“It was Dad’s.”
Hank softened his voice.
“Maybe his looked similar.”
“No.”
The certainty made Hank pause.
Eli touched a faint scratch along the tank.
Not randomly.
With one finger.
“He got that when Grandpa’s ladder fell in the garage.”
Hank looked at the scratch.
He knew it well.
Long.
Thin.
Just above the left emblem.
It had been there when Hank bought the bike.
He had considered repainting the tank a dozen times.
Never did.
Something about the scar belonged there.
Hank looked at the child again.
“Could be another bike.”
Eli frowned.
“There’s a star.”
“What?”
“A little star.”
“Where?”
“Under the seat.”
Hank’s expression changed.
Eli pointed.
“Dad scratched it where nobody could see it.”
The hospital entrance suddenly felt quieter.
Hank stood.
His first instinct was skepticism.
Not suspicion of the boy.
Children remembered stories incorrectly.
Photos blurred details.
Parents exaggerated.
Motorcycles of the same model could look almost identical.
Still.
He put the coffee bag aside.
“Show me.”
Eli released one handle.
Then pointed beneath the rear edge of the saddle.
“Right there.”
Hank unlocked the seat.
He had removed it dozens of times.
Battery service.