He held a folded sheet of paper in one hand.
Ray looked around.
No adult.
“You lost?”
The boy shook his head.
“What do you need?”
“Do you buy motorcycles?”
Ray stared.
“Sometimes.”
The boy nodded toward the road.
“I have one.”
Ray leaned sideways.
Nothing visible.
“Where?”
“Around the corner.”
“You riding it?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“I pushed it.”
Ray stood.
“You pushed a motorcycle here?”
The boy nodded.
“How far?”
“About a mile.”
Ray walked toward the gate.
Around the corner stood a black Harley-Davidson.
Old.
Dusty.
Familiar shape.
Something about it stopped Ray.
The boy walked toward the motorcycle.
“It was my dad's.”
Ray's eyes moved toward the tank.
Then the saddlebag.
Faded patch.
Skull.
Wings.
Tiny stitched letters below.
IRON JAWS MC — ARIZONA
Ray's chest tightened.
He looked at the boy.
“What is your name?”
“Ethan.”
Ray said nothing.
“Ethan Miller.”
The whole yard seemed to become quiet.
Ray stared.
“Daniel's boy?”
Ethan looked surprised.
“You knew my dad?”
Ray almost laughed.
Knew him.
Daniel Miller had once ridden six hours through a thunderstorm because Ray's motorcycle broke down outside Flagstaff.
Daniel had been best man at Ray's wedding.
Then helped him through the divorce.
Daniel was the man who slept in a hospital chair for two nights after Ray wrecked his bike in 2014.
And years earlier, when Ray had drunk enough after his younger brother's death that he was determined to ride anyway, Daniel took the keys.
Ray punched him.
Daniel took the punch.
Then sat beside him on a curb until sunrise.
Ray had not spoken Daniel's name in months.
It still hurt.
“You're Ethan.”
“Yes.”
Ray looked at the motorcycle again.
“Where's your mom?”
“Home.”
“She know you're here?”
Ethan looked at the ground.
Ray closed his eyes.
“Son.”
“I need to sell it.”
“No.”
Ethan looked up.
Ray did not even know why he answered so fast.
He corrected:
“I mean... why?”
Ethan unfolded the paper.
Pharmacy receipt.
Ray read.
Sarah Miller.
Prescription.
Balance.
$186.40.
Ray looked at the boy's hand.
Small fingers.
Dirt beneath nails.
“You're selling Daniel's Harley for one hundred eighty-six dollars?”
Ethan swallowed.
“I need more if you can.”
Ray felt something break inside his chest.
He turned away.
Walked three steps.
Then returned.
“Your mom know you're selling it?”
“No.”
“Did she tell you she needs this medicine?”
“She said she'll get it tomorrow.”
“Then maybe—”
“She can't breathe right.”
Ray stopped.
Ethan tried to remain steady.
His chin trembled.
“She thinks I don't know, but I know.”
Ray looked back at the receipt.
“How old are you?”
“Eleven.”
“You walk this bike a mile?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
Ray rubbed both hands over his face.
“Daniel, I'm going to kill you again,” he muttered.
Ethan frowned.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Ray crouched slightly so they were closer in height.
“This motorcycle is worth more than two hundred dollars.”
“I know.”
“How much do you think?”
Ethan hesitated.
“One thousand?”
Ray almost smiled.
More.
Far more to the right buyer.
But money was not the only value.
Ray walked around the Harley.
Daniel had modified it himself.
Hand-cut rear fender.
Custom exhaust.
Old leather saddle.
Scratches on the left tank from a ride through Utah.
One dent Ray recognized immediately.
Daniel got that when he dropped the bike helping Ray move a refrigerator.
Sarah had screamed:
“At least damage the motorcycle doing something masculine!”
Daniel replied:
“Refrigerators are heavy!”
Ray laughed aloud at the memory.
Ethan looked confused.
“Your dad was an idiot.”
Ethan's face tightened.
Ray immediately added:
“One of my favorite idiots.”
The boy relaxed.
Ray crouched beside the saddlebag.
Touched the Iron Jaws patch.
“You know what this is?”
“My dad's motorcycle club.”
“Not exactly.”
Ethan waited.
Ray stood.
“Your father wasn't just a guy who rode with us.”
Ray pointed toward himself.
“He was my brother.”
Ethan looked at the patch.
“Mom doesn't like the club.”
Ray nodded.
“Your mom had good reasons sometimes.”
“Dad said bikers make bad neighbors but good emergency contacts.”
Ray burst out laughing.
“That sounds exactly like Daniel.”
Ethan finally smiled.
Then remembered why he was there.
“Will you buy it?”
Ray's laughter disappeared.
“I can't.”
Ethan's shoulders fell.
Ray added:
“Not for what you're asking.”
“I can take less.”
“No.”
“I really need—”
Ray held up one greasy hand.
“Wait.”
He walked into the office.
Opened a metal cash drawer.
There was $1,240 inside.
Business cash.
Ray took all of it.
Then opened his wallet.
Two hundred more.
He returned.
Ethan stared at the stack.
“That is too much.”
“No.”
“I only need one eighty-six.”
“I heard you.”
“But—”
Ray placed the bills into Ethan's palm.
The boy froze.
“I can't.”
“Yes.”
“Mom will make me give it back.”
“Tell her the motorcycle was worth it.”
“Is it?”
Ray looked at the Harley.
“To me.”
Ethan swallowed.
He looked toward the bike.
Then money.
Then pharmacy receipt.
His eyes filled.
“Please don't sell it for pieces.”
Ray felt his throat tighten.
“I won't.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
Ethan touched the fuel tank.
“Dad said some machines remember things.”
Ray looked away quickly.
Daniel had told him that too.
Same words.
After Ray rebuilt his first motorcycle after the wreck.
Ray cleared his throat.
“He was right.”
Ethan's voice broke.
“It's the last thing I have that still sounds like him.”
Ray rested one hand gently on Ethan's shoulder.
The boy was all bones beneath the torn navy shirt.
“Go take care of your mom.”
Ethan wiped one cheek quickly.
“What about the bike?”
Ray looked toward the old patch.
“Don't worry about your father's bike.”
He paused.
“His brothers are going to take care of the rest.”
Ethan did not fully understand.
That was fine.
Ray watched him walk down the road.
Money tucked deep into his front pocket.
Pharmacy paper clenched in one hand.
He looked back twice.
At the Harley.
On the third time, Ray raised one hand.
Ethan waved.
Then disappeared around the corner.
Ray stood alone beside Daniel's motorcycle.
For perhaps a minute.
Then he pulled out his phone.
Scrolled.
Found a number he had not called in almost two years.
MOSES — IRON JAWS
He pressed call.
A rough voice answered.
“This better be good.”
Ray looked at Daniel's Harley.
“I found Danny's bike.”
Silence.
“What?”
“His boy just sold it to me.”
More silence.
Ray heard the man's breathing change.
“Why?”
“Sarah's sick.”
“What kind sick?”
“Bad enough an eleven-year-old pushed a Harley a mile to buy her medicine.”
Moses cursed.
Ray continued.
“Get everybody.”
“How many?”
Ray looked toward the road where Ethan disappeared.
“All of them.”
Ethan ran the final four blocks to the pharmacy.
He was afraid the money would somehow disappear if he slowed down.
The automatic doors opened.
Cold air.
Bright lights.