The Biker Leader looked away.
The young man smiled.
“Emotional dust?”
“Shut up.”
The first ride happened at sunrise.
Not a club ride.
Just two bikes.
The Biker Leader in front initially.
Then he moved aside.
The younger man took the lead.
They rode Route 93.
Same diner.
Still standing.
Different paint.
Neon finally repaired.
They stopped.
The mother met them there.
She now managed the diner.
The miniature motorcycle sat inside a small display case near the register.
Not permanently.
The young man carried it home every night.
The display included the old photograph.
Two brothers.
Teenagers.
One holding the toy.
Customers asked.
The mother kept the story short.
“Family found family.”
That was enough.
The Young Man ordered pancakes.
Still.
The Biker Leader ordered coffee.
Still.
They sat at the same table.
The Young Man looked toward the parking spot where he once played in the dust.
“You laughed at me.”
The Biker Leader frowned.
“I didn't.”
“Your guys did.”
“Idiots.”
“They’re still idiots.”
“Correct.”
The Young Man smiled.
“Good thing you saw the name.”
The Leader looked toward the display.
“Yes.”
“What if you didn't?”
The question hung.
The Biker Leader looked at him.
“Probably would've eaten lunch and left.”
“Then we'd never know.”
“Maybe.”
The Young Man frowned.
“You hate maybe.”
“Getting old.”
The Leader sipped coffee.
“Maybe somebody else would've noticed.”
“Maybe your mom would've seen the patch.”
“Maybe you would've found the letters later and searched.”
“Maybe not.”
The Young Man stared through the window.
“That’s scary.”
“Yes.”
The Biker Leader continued:
“So don't depend on fate for things you can say.”
The Young Man looked toward him.
The Leader tapped the table.
“Call people.”
“Apologize.”
“Ask questions.”
“Don't spend twenty years assuming somebody knows what you never told them.”
The Young Man nodded.
“That's the lesson?”
“One of them.”
“What’s the other?”
The Biker Leader looked at the toy.
“Don't laugh at somebody else's motorcycle.”
The Young Man laughed.
At twenty-two, he rebuilt his father’s first full-size motorcycle.
Not the original.
Gone decades ago.
But same year.
Same model.
Blue.
The color his father claimed to hate.
The project took eighteen months.
The Biker Leader helped.
Mostly by criticizing.
The Young Man accused him of having no useful emotional language except mechanical complaints.
Accurate.
When finished, they wheeled the blue motorcycle outside.
The mother cried.
The Young Man sat on it.
Then looked toward the Biker Leader.
“First ride?”