Before starting, he looked beneath the seat.
The replica tag moved slightly on fresh safety wire.
ARTHUR HAYES.
Leo reached inside his jacket.
He carried the original.
He had brought it without planning to.
He held it in his palm.
On one side:
ARTHUR HAYES.
On the other:
D.S. / A.H.
06-14-92.
MY BOY BROUGHT HER HOME.
Leo smiled.
Jim approached.
“You good?”
“Yeah.”
“Your mom says not to ride like an idiot.”
“She told you?”
“She told everyone.”
Leo laughed.
Jim looked at the original tag.
“Still have it.”
“Always.”
Jim nodded toward the ignition.
“Twelve degrees?”
Leo smiled.
“Exactly.”
Then something occurred to him.
“Jim.”
“Yeah?”
“When I found this, you reached for it.”
Jim looked embarrassed.
“I remember.”
“I thought you were trying to take it.”
“I was.”
“Why?”
Jim sighed.
“I panicked.”
“About the secret?”
“Yes.”
Leo waited.
Jim looked toward Claire.
Then back.
“I had promised Dutch I’d never tell anyone Arthur was his son unless Arthur allowed it.”
“And Arthur was already gone.”
“Exactly.”
“So when you pulled that tag out, I felt thirty years of promises land on my head at once.”
Leo smiled.
“You looked terrified.”
“I was.”
“Of an eight-year-old?”
“Your family is exhausting.”
Leo laughed.
Jim stepped back.
The riders prepared.
Leo put on his helmet.
Then he slid the original tag back into his jacket.
He started the motorcycle.
The FXR came alive immediately.
No hesitation.
The engine settled into its familiar rhythm.
Jim raised one hand.
The other riders started behind him.
Leo looked toward Claire.
She smiled.
Not at the motorcycle.
At him.
That distinction still mattered.
He rolled forward.
The old Harley carried Dutch’s history.
Arthur’s work.
Thomas Hayes’s lessons through Arthur’s hands.
Jim’s memories.
Leo’s childhood discovery.
But it did not define Leo.
He understood that now.
A machine can carry history without owning the future of the person riding it.
Leo turned onto the road.
One hundred and twenty motorcycles followed.
The route passed Blackstone.
Crossed the river.
Moved through roads Dutch had loved.
Then continued toward the old highway leading east.
At a stop outside the city, Leo parked the FXR.
Jim walked over.
“Running good?”
Leo removed his helmet.
“Perfect.”
Jim grinned.
“Factory timing?”
Leo stared.
Jim laughed.
They stood beside the bike.
For a while, neither said anything.
Then a young boy from another rider’s family approached.