Every time he imagined a garage there. Lifts and tool walls and a sign with his name on it. Every time he looked away. Today he looked away faster than usual.
Route 12, 4:00 in the afternoon. The sky had been threatening all day. Low clouds bruised purple and gray, the kind that don't bluff. The wind was bending the pine trees along the highway.
Temperature dropping fast. Henry was 10 minutes from the gas station when he saw it. A motorcycle on the gravel shoulder. Not a small one.
A massive, heavy, vintage machine. Chrome and black. A 1972 Harley Shovelhead. Though Henry didn't know the model yet.
The rear tire was completely flat, its rubber shredded nearly to the rim. And next to it stood a man. Late 60s. Silver beard that hung halfway down his chest.
Leather vest over a flannel shirt. Boots that had seen more road than most cars. Big hands. A face that looked like it had been carved from 50 years of hard weather and harder decisions.
He was standing with his arms folded, staring at the destroyed tire like it personally betrayed him. Henry slowed the Cavalier. His first thought was to pull over. His second thought was the clock.
His shift started in 30 minutes. He'd already been late twice this month. One more and his manager would cut his hours. He couldn't afford to lose hours.
He looked at the old man, looked at the sky. The first drops of rain were starting to hit his windshield. This stretch of Route 12 didn't get traffic after dark. If nobody stopped, this man could be out here all night in the rain, in the cold, at his age.
Henry pulled over. He stepped out of the car. The wind caught his hoodie and whipped it sideways. Rain was already speckling his glasses.
He walked toward the man. The gravel crunched under his sneakers. "Sir, do you need some help?" The old man turned, looked at him, didn't speak. His eyes moved over Henry slowly.
The faded hoodie, the old car, the young face. It wasn't hostility in that look. It was something else. Something deeper.
Like this man had spent his entire life measuring people in a single glance, and most of them came up short. A long beat of silence, rain falling between them. Then the old man spoke, two words, flat, giving nothing away. "Tire's done." And what happened next would cost Henry Adams more than he could possibly imagine.
What should have taken 20 minutes took almost 2 hours, and it cost Henry Adams more than just time. Henry walked back to the Cavalier and popped the trunk. Inside, buried under a jumper cable and a jug of windshield fluid, was a basic tire patch kit. Cheap, dollar store.
He'd bought it months ago for a slow leak on his own car. He carried it back to the motorcycle and knelt on the gravel. The first problem hit immediately. The Shovelhead's rear tire was heavy.