Emma turned toward Hank.
“Speed limit.”
“Yes.”
“No highway.”
“Yes.”
“Twenty minutes.”
“Yes.”
“Fifteen.”
“Emma.”
“Fifteen.”
Hank nodded.
“Fifteen.”
She looked at the tank.
The white drawing had faded slightly beneath the clear coat.
A bearded rider.
A little passenger.
Daniel’s planned future preserved in imperfect lines.
Emma placed one hand against the motorcycle.
Then she looked at Eli.
“Your dad would’ve hated how nervous I am.”
Eli smiled.
“He would’ve made jokes.”
“Terrible ones.”
Hank climbed onto the seat.
Eli took his place behind him.
For one second Hank could not move.
The real boy’s knees framed the drawn boy on the tank below.
Past and present overlapping.
Emma noticed too.
Her eyes filled.
Hank started the engine.
Eli’s arms wrapped carefully around him.
Hank looked back.
“You ready?”
Eli nodded.
“Yeah.”
Hank glanced toward Emma.
She stepped backward.
“Bring him back.”
Hank understood the sentence contained more than the ride.
“I will.”
They traveled six miles.
No highway.
No speed.
No performance.
Just country roads and afternoon wind.
At the turnaround point, Hank stopped beside a field.
Eli removed his helmet.
His hair stood in every direction.
He was laughing.
Not smiling.
Laughing.
Hank knew the sound.
Daniel at nine.
Daniel at fourteen.
Daniel after ruining pancakes.
Daniel somewhere on the other side of all the years they had wasted.
Eli looked at him.
“What?”
Hank shook his head.
“Nothing.”
“You’re crying.”
“Wind.”
“We stopped.”
“Residual wind.”
Eli grinned.
“Mom says you lie badly.”
“Your mother talks too much.”
They sat on the motorcycle without moving.
After a while Eli looked toward the horizon.
“Do you think Dad would’ve come back?”
Hank knew what he meant.
To Hank.
Not from death.
“I think he was trying.”
“Would you have said sorry?”
“Yes.”
“Right away?”
Hank thought about himself eight years earlier.
Proud.
Lonely.
Defensive.
He wanted to tell the boy yes.
Instead he said, “I hope so.”
Eli nodded.
“Dad said sometimes people know what to do and still need time to become the person who can do it.”
Hank stared at him.
“He said that?”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
“About a kid in his class.”
Hank smiled.
“Still.”
Eli looked at the tank.
“He wrote that letter before he died.”
“Yes.”
“So he became the person.”
Hank placed one hand over Eli’s.
“Yeah.”
“I think you did too.”
Hank looked away.
Residual wind again.
When they returned, Emma stood in the driveway with her arms folded.
“Seventeen minutes.”
Hank checked his watch.
“Traffic.”