“Decided?”
Hank looked toward the Harley.
“I’m thinking.”
“About what?”
He did not answer.
Sarah’s face changed.
“No.”
“Haven't said anything.”
“I know what you're thinking.”
“Then you're ahead of me.”
“Hank, no.”
“Sarah.”
“That motorcycle is worth money.”
“I know.”
“You've had it for years.”
“Yes.”
“You love it.”
“Yes.”
“Then do not turn one emotional afternoon into something you'll regret.”
Hank looked at her.
“You always this practical?”
“I had to become practical.”
He recognized the answer.
“Fair.”
Sarah softened.
“I’m grateful Eli found it.”
“I’m grateful you let him sit on it.”
“But we are not taking your motorcycle.”
Hank smiled faintly.
“Good.”
“What?”
“Because I haven't offered it.”
Sarah stared.
Then laughed.
“You're irritating.”
“I get that.”
Eli returned.
“What’s funny?”
“Nothing,” Sarah said.
“Hank.”
Hank pointed.
“Your mother.”
Eli looked suspiciously at both adults.
The subject changed.
But not inside Hank’s mind.
For the next three weeks, he rode less.
Not intentionally.
Every time he reached for the Harley keys, he thought about Eli’s hands around the handlebars.
Then Daniel’s note.
Then Sarah saying:
We are not taking your motorcycle.
One evening Hank’s brother, Ray, came over.
Ray noticed the uncovered bike.
“You sick?”
“What?”
“You've polished that tank three times this week.”
Hank tossed him a beer.
“Kid found it.”
“What kid?”
Hank told him.
Ray listened.
At the end, he whistled.
“That is one hell of a coincidence.”
“Yeah.”
Ray looked at the bike.
“You giving it back?”
Hank stared.
“Why does everyone assume that?”
“Because you've been staring at it like a priest deciding whether a miracle counts.”
Hank sat down.
Ray opened his beer.
“You want to?”
“I don't know.”
“That means yes.”
“No, it doesn't.”
“Hank.”
“It's my bike.”
“I know.”
“I've put twelve thousand dollars into it.”
“Probably more.”
“Fifteen years.”
“I know.”
“Half my best memories involve this thing.”
Ray nodded.
“Then keep it.”
Hank looked at him.
Ray shrugged.
“No shame in that.”
The answer should have brought relief.
It did not.
Hank rubbed his beard.
“Daniel sold it to save the kid.”
Ray waited.
“He handed me the keys so that boy could get medical care.”
“You didn't know.”
“I know.”
“The bike did what Daniel needed it to do.”
“I know.”
Ray drank.
“So maybe owning it afterward doesn't insult that.”
Hank looked toward him.
Ray continued.
“Maybe you kept the thing alive long enough for his kid to find it.”
That sentence remained with Hank.
Not returned.
Found.
There was a difference.
The following Saturday, Hank invited Sarah and Eli to a local charity motorcycle show.
He did not tell them what he had arranged.
Nearly eighty bikes filled the community fairground.
Veterans.
Firefighters.
Construction workers.
Teachers.