At seventeen, he began looking at colleges.
Art schools.
Engineering schools.
One program combined industrial design and mechanical engineering.
Hank liked that one.
Emma accused him of campaigning.
He denied it badly.
Eli applied to all of them.
Then an envelope arrived.
His first acceptance.
The art program.
Full scholarship.
Eli called Hank before Emma could stop him.
“I got in!”
Hank stood in the roadhouse parking lot beside the same motorcycle.
“Which one?”
“Chicago.”
Hank remembered seventeen-year-old Daniel standing in a garage holding an acceptance letter.
The past moved so quickly that for one terrifying second he was no longer sixty-eight.
He was forty-five.
Angry about tuition.
Afraid his son would fail.
Afraid Daniel would choose a life Hank did not understand.
And because he had been afraid, he called the dream impractical.
Eli waited.
“Grandpa?”
Hank swallowed.
“That’s incredible.”
“You think?”
“I know.”
“It’s art.”
“I heard you.”
“And design.”
“I heard that too.”
“You’re not gonna tell me engineering pays better?”
Hank closed his eyes.
“No.”
“Really?”
“No.”
“Mom said you would.”
“Your mother enjoys insulting me.”
“She said she was testing personal growth.”
Hank laughed.
“Tell her I passed.”
“So you think I should go?”
Hank looked at Daniel’s drawing.
“I think you should decide.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“It isn’t supposed to be.”
“What would you do?”
“Different question.”
Eli waited.
“I would go.”
Silence.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because if you spend your life building somebody else’s version of you, eventually you’ll hate the builder.”
Eli became quiet.
Hank continued.
“I learned that one late.”
“You still learned it.”
“Yeah.”
That spring, graduation arrived.
Emma saved a seat beside her.
Hank sat there.
No awkwardness.
No permission required.
Ray and Luis drove from out of state.
Ruth came too.
Eli crossed the stage.
Hank shouted.
Emma hit his arm.
“You’re embarrassing him.”
“That’s the job.”
When Eli returned afterward, he carried his diploma and wore the expression of someone trying not to cry.
Hank held out a small box.
Emma immediately said, “What did you buy?”
“Nothing irresponsible.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
Eli opened it.
Inside was a motorcycle key.
Emma went still.
“Hank.”
“Relax.”
Eli stared at the key.
“What?”
Hank pointed toward the parking lot.
They followed.
Beside Hank’s black cruiser stood another motorcycle.
Smaller.
Older.
Restored.
A deep green 1978 Honda.
Eli covered his mouth.
Emma looked ready to kill Hank.
He lifted one finger.
“It is not registered to him.”
Her expression changed slightly.
“It’s mine.”
Eli frowned.
“Then why give me a key?”
“Because you’re going to help me finish it.”
The Honda still needed work.
Seat.
Electrical.