The Biker Leader held the photograph beside it.
The child stared.
“That’s my motorcycle.”
The Leader swallowed.
“Yes.”
The boy pointed toward the younger teenager.
“That’s my dad.”
No one laughed now.
The desert seemed to lose sound.
Even traffic on Route 93 disappeared for several seconds.
The Biker Leader looked at the boy.
“What did you say?”
The boy pointed again.
“That’s my dad.”
The Biker Leader sat back hard on his heel.
The Older Biker whispered something under his breath.
The boy became nervous.
He hugged the toy.
“You knew him?”
The Biker Leader looked at the photograph.
Twenty-seven years disappeared.
A garage.
Two brothers.
One stolen socket wrench.
One furious father.
An unfinished motorcycle.
A miniature toy bought at a truck stop because the younger brother had been twelve and obsessed with anything on two wheels.
He had engraved the name himself.
With a nail.
Because neither brother owned a proper engraving tool.
The lightning bolt came from a stupid nickname.
They had laughed about how bad it looked.
The Biker Leader looked at the child again.
“What was your father’s last name?”
The boy told him.
There was no mistake.
The Older Biker removed his sunglasses.
The Biker Leader stood too quickly.
His knee nearly buckled.
He stepped away.
Hands on hips.
Facing the highway.
The child looked frightened.
The Quiet Biker crouched beside him.
“He's not mad at you.”
The boy whispered:
“Then why does he look mad?”
The Quiet Biker looked toward the Leader.
“Some people only know one face for too many feelings.”
Inside the diner, a woman appeared behind the screen door.
Early thirties.
Dark hair tied back.
Blue waitress apron.
She stared toward the bikers surrounding the child.
Then pushed through the door.
“Hey!”
Every man turned.
The woman crossed the lot quickly.
“Move away from him.”
The boy said:
“Mom.”
She reached him.
One hand went to his shoulder.
The other pointed at the bikers.
“What do you want?”
The Biker Leader turned.
He held up the photograph.
The woman froze.
Her face changed before he said anything.
She recognized it.
That told him almost as much as the boy had.
The Biker Leader asked quietly:
“You’re his mother?”
“Yes.”
“You knew who I was?”
She looked toward his vest.
Then his face.
“No.”
That answer seemed honest.
The Biker Leader held out the picture.
She did not take it.
He stepped closer.
Not too close.
“Your husband.”
Her jaw tightened.
“My late husband.”
The words struck harder than expected.
The Biker Leader looked down.
“How long?”
“Three years.”
The boy stared at his toy.
He had apparently heard this answer many times.
The Biker Leader asked:
“What happened?”
The mother became defensive again.