“Is this where you make it go?”
I nodded.
“Among other things.”
She stared at the controls.
Then asked.
“Can you teach me how to fix it?”
My chest tightened.
I smiled.
“Someday, if you want.”
She nodded seriously.
“I want.”
Then she looked toward the patch.
“Don't take that off.”
For a moment, I couldn't speak.
I touched the little embroidered letters.
“Never again.”
She smiled.
Then climbed down.
When it was time for me to leave, she hugged me so tightly that I felt her little fists pressing into my back.
I held her gently.
Then whispered.
“I'll call tonight.”
She nodded.
“I know.”
For a moment, she stepped backward.
Then she looked toward me.
“Grandpa?”
“Yes?”
“Mom was right.”
I smiled.
“About what?”
She looked toward the motorcycle.
Then toward my face.
“You came.”
I couldn't answer.
I simply kissed the top of her head, put on my helmet, and climbed onto the bike.
As I rode away, I saw Rosie standing beside Evelyn with one hand raised.
The yellow raincoat fluttered in the breeze.
And for the first time in nine years, the road ahead didn't feel like somewhere I was running away to.
It felt like somewhere I was coming back from.
Bishop was waiting when I returned to Casper.
He stood outside my garage wearing an old Iron Ravens jacket, his arms crossed.
He looked at the motorcycle.
Then at me.
For a moment, he seemed prepared to make a joke about my long ride.
But when he saw the patch over my heart, he stopped.
His expression changed.
He stepped closer.
“Ray?”
I removed my helmet.
“Yeah?”
Bishop pointed toward the patch.
“Is that…?”
I nodded.
For a moment, he couldn't speak.
Then his eyes filled.
“Where did you get it?”
I swallowed.
“Mara's daughter.”
He stared.
For several seconds, he seemed unable to understand.
Then he whispered.
“You have a granddaughter?”
I nodded.
“Her name's Rosie.”
Bishop covered his mouth.
For a moment, he looked toward the garage.
Then back at me.
“Raymond…”
The use of my real name almost undid me.
I took a breath.
“Mara died last winter.”
His expression collapsed.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he stepped forward and embraced me.
I had known that man for forty years.
We'd ridden through snowstorms.
Buried friends.
Rebuilt broken motorcycles.
And argued about everything from engine oil to politics.
But I don't remember Bishop ever holding me quite like that.
When he stepped back, his eyes were wet.
“I'm sorry, brother.”
I nodded.
“Me too.”
He looked toward the patch again.
Then whispered.