Wiring.
Inspection.
He knew what was under there.
Or believed he did.
He lifted the saddle.
Dust had gathered along the frame.
Eli leaned closer.
“Under the metal bracket.”
Hank crouched again.
He rubbed one thumb across the painted frame rail.
Nothing.
He looked at Eli.
The boy’s face fell.
“Wait.”
Hank reached deeper.
There was another surface beneath the bracket.
A narrow piece of black-painted metal.
He wiped it with the edge of his shirt.
Then froze.
Five tiny lines had been scratched into the paint.
Crude.
Barely visible.
A star.
Hank did not move.
Eli whispered:
“Told you.”
Hank stared at the mark.
He had owned the motorcycle for years.
Had taken parts off it.
Cleaned it.
Repaired it.
Slept beside it in motel parking lots when he did not trust the neighborhood.
He had never noticed the star.
“How did you know?”
Eli looked at him as though the answer were obvious.
“My dad showed me.”
Hank slowly replaced the seat.
“Where is your dad?”
The boy looked toward the hospital doors.
His expression changed.
“He died.”
Hank’s chest tightened.
“Oh.”
He took off his sunglasses.
“I'm sorry, kid.”
Eli shrugged in the strange way children sometimes did when adults gave them words too large to answer.
“He died two years ago.”
Hank sat on his heels.
“Your mom here?”
Eli nodded.
“She’s inside getting papers.”
“What papers?”
“My heart papers.”
Hank’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Your heart?”
“I had a checkup.”
“Everything okay?”
Eli shrugged again.
“Doctor says yes.”
Before Hank could ask more, the hospital doors opened.
A woman came outside quickly.
She was in her late thirties.
Maybe forty.
Brown hair pulled into a loose ponytail.
Cream sweater.
Dark pants.
Hospital folder tucked beneath one arm.
The second she saw Eli beside the motorcycle, fear crossed her face.
“Eli!”
She hurried toward them.
“What did I tell you about walking away from the bench?”
“I didn’t go far.”
“You were supposed to wait.”
She looked at Hank.
“I'm sorry.”
“He loves motorcycles.”
Hank stood.
“No harm.”
She reached for Eli’s hand.
“Come on.”
Eli resisted.
“Mom.”
“Not now.”
“It’s Dad’s.”
She stopped.
Hank watched her face.
Her eyes moved slowly toward the motorcycle.
The transformation was immediate.
Confusion.
Recognition.
Disbelief.
Then something so painful that Hank almost looked away.
The woman let go of Eli.
She walked around the front wheel.
Her eyes moved over the tank.
The scratch.
The chrome.
The saddle.
Her hand rose to her mouth.
“No.”
Eli pointed beneath the seat.
“The star was there.”
The woman closed her eyes.
Hank spoke quietly.
“He knew exactly where to find it.”
She looked at him.
“How long have you had this motorcycle?”
“Several years.”
Her lips parted.
“Where did you buy it?”
Hank told her.
A small independent motorcycle shop outside Denver.
The woman looked back at the Harley.
“What year?”