The white marker squeaked once across the black fuel tank.
Noah Bennett froze.
He waited.
Nobody shouted.
The parking lot behind Miller’s Roadhouse remained full of the ordinary Saturday sounds that had made him brave enough to start: chairs scraping on the wooden porch, motorcycles cooling beneath a pale October sky, somebody laughing near the diner door, and country music leaking from an open window.
Noah looked over his shoulder.
His mother was still inside.
Good.
He turned back to the motorcycle.
It was the largest one in the row.
Black paint.
Chrome engine.
High handlebars.
A seat wide enough, Noah imagined, for two people who knew exactly where they were going.
The motorcycle looked important.
That was partly why he had chosen it.
The other bikes were black too, but this one had a little silver scratch near the rear light and a dent no bigger than his thumbnail on the side panel.
Perfect things made Noah nervous.
Things with one small mistake seemed safer.
He uncapped the marker again.
His mother used the white paint pen to label moving boxes.
She had put it on the table that morning beside tape, scissors, and a list of everything they still needed to pack before Monday.
Noah had slipped it into his hoodie without really deciding to.
Now he drew another line.
The first person on the motorcycle had a beard.
A very large beard.
Noah had noticed the motorcycle’s owner earlier when the man came out of the roadhouse carrying two coffee cups.
The biker had silver threaded through dark hair, tattooed arms, a black leather vest, and a beard that looked like it belonged to somebody who lived in a forest even though they were standing beside Route 41.
Noah made the beard too big.
He rubbed the line with his thumb.
It did not come off.
His heart jumped.
The marker was more permanent than he had thought.
He should stop.
He knew that.
Instead, he drew the second person.
Smaller.
Sitting behind the biker.
The little figure’s arms stretched outward.
Noah paused.
He considered drawing the arms wrapped around the biker’s waist, which was probably what you were supposed to do on a motorcycle.
But in his head, the boy was not scared.
In his head, the road was empty and the wind was strong and somebody else was responsible for knowing the way.
So he left the little arms spread wide.
He added hair.
Then shoes.
Then a crooked smile.
He was working on the back wheel when a pair of heavy boots stopped on the asphalt behind him.
Noah closed his eyes.
For one second, he considered running.
His mother had told him not to run from trouble because most trouble had better legs.
He slowly turned.
The biker stood there.
Up close, he was enormous.
At least that was how he looked to an eight-year-old.
His shoulders filled the black leather vest. Tattoos covered both forearms and disappeared beneath the sleeveless shirt. A silver ring rested on one thick finger. His beard was darker beneath the chin and almost completely gray near the sides.
His blue eyes moved from Noah to the uncapped marker.
Then to the tank.
Then back.
Noah swallowed.
The biker put the two coffee cups on the seat of the motorcycle beside his.
Very carefully.
“What are you doing?”
Noah looked down at the marker.
The truth seemed obvious.
“Drawing.”
The biker stared at him.
Noah immediately understood that this had not been a useful answer.
The man stepped toward the motorcycle.
He saw the white lines.
His face changed.
Noah’s stomach tightened.
The biker put one hand against the fuel tank but did not touch the drawing.
“What did you use?”
Noah held up the marker.
The man looked at the label.
His jaw hardened.
“Paint marker.”
“I thought it wiped off.”
“You thought wrong.”
“I’m sorry.”
The biker closed his eyes.
For half a second, Noah saw something dangerous in the way the man breathed.
Not dangerous like he was going to hit him.
Dangerous like anger was trying very hard to decide what shape it wanted to take.
Two men near the porch noticed.
One was older and wore a red bandanna.
The other was bald and had sunglasses resting on top of his head.
The man with the bandanna stopped laughing.
“Bear?”
The biker lifted one hand without looking away from Noah.
The other men stayed where they were.
Bear.
Noah had heard somebody call him that earlier.
It made sense.
Bear crouched.
His left knee cracked loudly.
He winced.
Noah nearly apologized for that too.
Bear pointed at the motorcycle tank.
“Kid.”
Noah looked at him.
“You cannot draw on somebody else’s motorcycle.”
“I know.”
Bear’s eyebrows rose.
“You knew?”
Noah’s cheeks burned.
“Yes.”
“Before you did it?”
“Yes.”
Bear looked back at the drawing.
“That makes this harder.”