I didn't expect an answer.
The package I received months later contained nothing more than the original folded note and a short line written on the outside of the envelope.
She wants you to keep it.
I didn't know who wrote those words.
I thought they meant Mara was refusing the patch.
I thought she wanted me to understand the relationship was over.
So I placed the envelope in a drawer and left the space over my heart empty.
For nine years.
I kept riding.
Kept working.
And kept telling anyone who asked about the bare section of my vest that I simply didn't want another patch.
Nobody believed me.
But most people were kind enough to stop asking.
The Iron Ravens knew something had happened.
Bishop knew more than anybody.
His real name was Thomas Bell, although I couldn't remember the last time I'd heard someone call him that outside a doctor's office.
He was sixty-seven, stocky, gray-haired, and carried himself like a man who had spent thirty years giving orders to stubborn mechanics.
He had been my closest friend since my twenties.
The kind of man who could tell when I was lying about being fine.
One winter evening, he came to my garage carrying a bag of groceries.
I was rebuilding a transmission.
He set the bag beside my toolbox.
“Your refrigerator's empty.”
I looked up.
“You been inspecting my refrigerator?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because somebody needs to.”
I turned back to the transmission.
He stood watching for a moment.
Then asked, “Heard anything from Mara?”
My hands stopped.
“No.”
Bishop nodded.
He didn't press immediately.
Instead, he unpacked the groceries.
Bread.
Soup.
Coffee.
Eggs.
Then he leaned against the workbench.
“Ray.”
I kept my eyes on the transmission.
“What?”
“You didn't kill Evan.”
My throat tightened.
“Don't.”
“He died in a collision. You were trying to help.”
I gripped the wrench.
“I was there.”
“So were the rescue crews.”
I looked up sharply.
“They couldn't get him out.”
Bishop didn't flinch.
“No.”
I swallowed.
“And neither could I.”
He watched me.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then he answered, “Not being able to save somebody isn't the same as choosing not to.”
I looked away.
I knew the words were reasonable.
I had heard doctors and counselors explain survivor's guilt.
I understood, in a general way, that people often blamed themselves for tragedies they couldn't control.
But understanding something and believing it were different things.
When Mara told me I had come away without Evan, the accusation settled into a part of me that reasoning couldn't reach.
Bishop stepped closer.