He stood too quickly.
Pain shot through his knee.
He barely felt it.
“What’s your name, son?”
“Eli.”
“I’m Hank.”
“I know.”
Hank blinked.
“The lady inside said your name.”
“Oh.”
Emma descended the remaining steps.
She carried the toolbox with both hands now.
The paint had once been blue.
Age had faded it almost gray.
A bent latch hung slightly lower on the left side.
There was a thin white stripe across the handle.
Hank knew that box too.
He had given it to Daniel when his son was eleven.
Hank looked at Emma.
She looked older than the photographs he had never seen.
Tired.
Careful.
Guarded.
But there was something about the way she held herself that told him she had rehearsed this moment many times and still had no idea how it was supposed to go.
“I’m Emma.”
Hank swallowed.
“Daniel’s wife?”
“Yes.”
For years he had imagined meeting her.
Back when Daniel first mentioned a woman named Emma, Hank had pictured a restaurant.
He had imagined embarrassing his son by telling childhood stories.
Then the silence between father and son began.
Later, Hank imagined finding an address.
Driving there.
Standing on a porch.
Apologizing.
He had imagined Daniel slamming a door in his face.
He had imagined being allowed inside.
He had imagined almost everything.
Not this.
Hank looked toward the parking lot.
A sedan stood near the far end beside a rusted pickup.
No Daniel.
He looked at the road.
Nothing.
“Where’s Danny?”
Emma tightened her grip on the toolbox.
“Can we talk inside?”
Hank knew before she answered.
Some truths arrived in the body before they reached the ears.
His chest tightened.
The parking lot suddenly seemed much too bright.
He looked at Eli.
The boy was studying the drawing.
“Hank?”
Emma’s voice was quiet.
He looked at her again.
“Inside.”
Ruth Bell owned the roadhouse.
She had known Hank for nineteen years and had learned that asking him whether he wanted help was usually the quickest way to make him refuse it.
So she did not ask.
She opened the front door.
“Kitchen’s open.”
The lunch menu was still turned face down.
It was barely eleven.
Ruth looked at Eli.
“You like grilled cheese?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Because that’s what you’re getting.”
Eli glanced toward his mother.
Emma nodded.
Inside, the roadhouse smelled like bacon, coffee, old wood, and the faint trace of motor oil that seemed to follow bikers through every door they entered.
Ruth guided Eli toward the counter.
“Lemonade?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Crust?”
Eli considered the question with surprising seriousness.
“Can I have half with crust and half without?”
Ruth nodded.
“Finally, a customer with reasonable demands.”
Eli almost smiled.
Emma placed the toolbox on a table.
She kept one hand on the lid.
“I need to say something first.”
Hank stood opposite her.
“I’m sorry about the motorcycle. I’ll pay to have it cleaned.”
“That can wait.”
“I mean it.”
“So do I.”
“It may take me a little while.”
Hank frowned.
“To clean marker?”
“To pay.”
He looked at her clothes again.
Not poor.
Not polished either.
Jeans worn at the knees.
Shoes that had seen too many parking lots.
A pale-blue blouse with one cuff repaired by hand.
Hank looked away.
Emma called toward the counter.
“Eli.”
The boy turned.
“You know you can’t draw on things that belong to other people.”
“I know.”
“Did you know before you did it?”
Eli looked down.