“It’s your motorcycle.”
“That wasn't what I asked.”
He looked at Noah.
“Can I look at what you drew?”
Noah nodded.
Hammer walked around Rachel.
Slowly.
Carefully.
He did not touch the child.
He stopped beside the Harley.
The other bikers remained silent.
Hammer studied the drawing.
Rachel wanted to disappear.
The white figure occupied almost half the black tank.
It was not good.
At least not by adult standards.
The head was too large.
One arm longer than the other.
The handlebars curved strangely.
The beard resembled grass.
The backward cap looked almost sideways.
Hammer stared anyway.
Then he noticed something.
A tiny rectangle around the figure’s left wrist.
Hammer leaned closer.
His expression changed.
He crouched.
“What are you drawing there, son?”
Noah's bottom lip trembled.
He pointed toward the figure.
“That’s my dad.”
Rachel closed her eyes.
Of course.
The drawing suddenly made sense.
Daniel.
Her husband.
Noah had been drawing Daniel constantly since the funeral.
On paper.
On cardboard.
On the fogged bathroom mirror.
Once, unfortunately, on the kitchen wall.
Always the same details.
Uneven beard.
Backward cap.
Big hands.
Rachel had not realized he had begun drawing him on a stranger’s Harley.
Hammer did not look away.
“Your dad rode?”
Noah shook his head.
Rachel almost corrected him.
Daniel had owned motorcycles when he was younger.
Not after Noah was born.
Noah pointed at the drawing again.
“He sat on this one.”
Rachel frowned.
Hammer went completely still.
“What?”
Noah looked at the tank.
“This bike.”
Rachel stepped forward.
“Noah, sweetheart, you've probably seen another black motorcycle.”
“No.”
His voice became firmer.
“Dad sat on this one.”
Hammer slowly stood.
One of the bikers behind him muttered:
“Hammer?”
Hammer lifted one hand without looking back.
Silence returned.
He asked Noah:
“How do you know?”
Noah stared at the unfinished drawing.
“I need blue.”
Nobody understood.
Rachel rubbed one hand across her forehead.
“Sweetheart, we’re already in enough trouble.”
“No.”
Noah pointed toward the tiny rectangle he had drawn on the man's wrist.
“That has to be blue.”
Hammer’s face changed.
Rachel noticed immediately.
The anger she had expected had never arrived.
Now something else replaced it.
Recognition.
Hammer whispered:
“Blue?”
Noah nodded.
“His hospital band.”
Hammer took one step backward.
The biker holding the solvent lowered his hand.
Another biker whispered something Rachel could not hear.
Hammer turned abruptly.
He crossed the parking lot toward his motorcycle’s rear saddlebag.
Rachel watched him open it.
He moved several things.
Gloves.
Small tool roll.
Rain cover.
Then his hands stopped.