“If you didn't argue with the price, he liked you.”
Hank laughed.
He looked toward the motorcycle.
“I remember asking whether he was sure.”
“What did he say?”
“He said no.”
Sarah’s smile vanished.
Then returned smaller.
“That sounds like him.”
Eli had moved to the left side of the bike.
He crouched.
“What are you doing?” Sarah asked.
“Looking.”
“For?”
“Dad said Grandpa put something near the engine.”
Hank looked quickly.
“What?”
Eli crawled closer.
Sarah grabbed his hood.
“Do not crawl under somebody’s motorcycle.”
Hank smiled.
“He’s fine.”
Eli pointed toward a chrome cover.
“Dad said his dad engraved their initials somewhere.”
Hank frowned.
Now he was curious.
He knelt.
They inspected.
Nothing.
Hank removed his phone and turned on the flashlight.
Then he saw tiny scratches behind an engine guard.
D.C.
And beside them:
R.C.
Daniel Collins.
Robert Collins.
Father and son.
Hank sat back.
“You’re kidding me.”
Eli grinned.
“My dad knew everything about this bike.”
Apparently he did.
Hank looked at the boy.
“You want to sit on it?”
Sarah immediately said:
“Eli, don't bother him.”
“He isn't bothering me.”
Hank steadied the motorcycle and helped Eli climb onto the saddle.
The boy’s feet did not come close to reaching the ground.
He wrapped both hands around the grips.
His expression changed.
Hank saw it immediately.
Sarah did too.
For one second, Eli seemed closer to his father than he had been when standing beside old photographs.
“Dad sat here.”
“Yes,” Sarah whispered.
Hank stood behind the boy with one hand resting safely on the rear of the saddle.
Eli closed his eyes.
“Can you start it?”
Sarah looked uncertain.
Hank asked:
“You okay with that?”
She nodded.
He turned the key.
The Harley came alive.
Deep.
Heavy.
The vibration moved through the frame.
Eli’s eyes opened wide.
He laughed.
Not a quiet laugh.
A child's full laugh.
Sarah covered her mouth.
Hank looked away because suddenly his own eyes were burning.
The engine idled for only twenty seconds.
Hank shut it down.
Silence returned.
Eli remained seated.
“I remember that sound.”
Sarah stared.
“How?”
“Dad had videos.”
Of course.
Hank helped him down.
Eli immediately hugged the fuel tank.
Sarah started to apologize.
Hank shook his head.
“Let him.”
They eventually exchanged phone numbers.
Hank told himself it was practical.
Sarah had questions.
He had paperwork from the original purchase somewhere.
Maybe she would like copies.
Maybe Eli wanted photographs.
That was all.
He rode away from the hospital at five-thirty.
For the first time in years, the motorcycle felt different beneath him.
Every vibration had history now.
The tank scratch.
The star.
The initials.
Things Hank had considered imperfections were suddenly evidence.
He rode home slowly.
His house sat outside Prescott on two acres that had once been part of a larger horse property.
Hank parked inside the detached garage.
Normally he covered the Harley after the engine cooled.
That evening he sat beside it.
For a long time.
The garage contained photographs of trips.
Colorado.
Montana.
South Dakota.
California.
Oregon.