“What do you want him to draw?”
“Me.”
Hammer stopped laughing.
Daniel’s smile faded too.
“Me in front.”
“Noah behind.”
“On your Harley.”
Hammer looked toward his motorcycle through the diner window.
“On the tank?”
“Somewhere visible.”
“With what?”
“Paint marker.”
Hammer stared at him.
Daniel shrugged.
“You can clean it later.”
“No.”
Daniel laughed.
“You don't understand bikers at all.”
“I’m beginning to.”
Hammer folded his arms.
“No.”
Daniel leaned forward.
“Ray.”
That name stopped him.
Very few people used it.
“Please.”
Hammer looked at the dying man across the table.
“Why the drawing?”
Daniel’s eyes lowered.
“Because Noah is going to spend years hearing people tell him memories fade.”
“I don't want him afraid of that.”
Hammer said nothing.
Daniel continued.
“I want him to learn something.”
“What?”
“That love doesn't become less real because the picture changes.”
“If he draws me badly, let him.”
“If he gets my beard wrong, let him.”
“If he forgets what shirt I wore, let him.”
“If someday he can't remember my voice…”
Daniel swallowed.
“Let that be okay too.”
Hammer's throat tightened.
“The drawing isn't supposed to preserve me perfectly.”
“It's supposed to prove he gets to keep making the memory his.”
Hammer looked away.
For a man nicknamed Hammer, crying came too easily that afternoon.
He hated it.
Daniel pretended not to notice.
Finally Hammer said:
“Fine.”
Daniel smiled.
“Fine?”
“Kid gets one drawing.”
“One.”
“On the tank.”
“You’re a terrible person.”
Daniel laughed.
“Deal.”
“Then you owe me the marker.”
Daniel nodded.
“White.”
“Why white?”
“Shows up on black.”
Hammer pointed at him.
“See?”
“That's the kind of detail that confirms you're sick in the head.”
Daniel laughed again.
That was the first promise.
There were others.
The next three meetings refined it.
Daniel gave Hammer the route.
A letter for Noah.
A second letter for Rachel.
The photograph.
And the white paint marker.
The exact marker Noah had somehow found inside Hammer’s open saddlebag that afternoon.
Rachel stared at him.
“You brought it here?”
Hammer nodded.
“Every hospital ride since Daniel died.”
She looked toward Noah.
“So he didn't steal some random marker.”
“No.”
“He found the one his father left.”
Rachel covered her mouth.
Hammer looked embarrassed.
“I forgot to zip that pocket.”
Noah apparently had noticed the marker.
Then the motorcycle.
Then followed whatever strange line children used between memory and instinct.
Rachel whispered:
“Daniel knew he might do that?”
Hammer shook his head.
“He hoped.”
“There's a difference.”
“What else did he give you?”
Hammer’s expression changed.
Rachel saw immediately there was more.