“The wheel.”
“No.”
“It’s huge.”
“That wheel stays.”
“Grandpa.”
“Nonnegotiable.”
“The arm?”
“Also terrible.”
“So yes?”
Hank sighed.
“You can restore the lines.”
Eli grinned.
“But you follow the original.”
“Mostly.”
“Eli.”
“Mostly.”
They removed the tank together.
Placed it on Hank’s workbench.
Photographs surrounded them.
Daniel’s original drawing.
Eli’s childhood version.
A picture of father and son.
A picture of Hank and Daniel.
Three generations represented by paper, paint, mistakes, and missing years.
Eli used a fine marker.
His hand was steadier at fourteen.
The new lines were cleaner.
More confident.
But he kept the oversized wheel.
He kept the ridiculous passenger arm.
He kept the crooked lightning bolt.
When he reached the rider’s face, he stopped.
“I don’t remember Dad’s face as clearly.”
Hank did not answer immediately.
Eli looked embarrassed by the admission.
“I know pictures.”
“That’s different.”
“Sometimes when I think about him, I see photographs instead.”
Hank sat beside him.
“That happens.”
“I hate it.”
“I know.”
“I’m supposed to remember.”
“You do remember.”
“What if I forget his voice?”
Hank looked toward the old cabinet in the corner.
“Come here.”
He opened the bottom drawer.
Inside sat a plastic storage box.
He removed an old cassette.
Eli frowned.
“What’s that?”
“Ancient technology.”
“I know what a cassette is.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Prove it.”
“How?”
Hank laughed.
“Exactly.”
He brought out a small cassette player.
The same one Daniel had mentioned in his letter.
Hank inserted the tape.
Pressed play.
Static.
Then a younger Hank’s voice.
“Danny, leave your sister alone.”
Eli froze.
A child laughed through the speaker.
Daniel.
Nine years old.
High.
Breathless.
Alive.
“Dad?”
Hank nodded.
The recording continued.
Young Daniel shouted something about a water balloon.
Someone screamed.
A splash.
Then Daniel laughed again.
Eli covered his mouth.
Hank watched him.
Tears fell without sound.
When the tape ended, Eli pressed rewind.
Again.
Daniel laughed.
Again.
By the fourth replay, Eli was laughing too.
“He sounded weird.”
“He was nine.”
“He sounded like me.”
Hank nodded.
“I know.”
They finished the tank that evening.
Before applying the final protective layer, Eli added something small beneath the motorcycle.
Three initials.
D.
E.
H.
Daniel.
Eli.
Hank.
Hank saw it.
Said nothing.
At sixteen, Eli earned his driver’s license.