Hank said no.
The collector doubled it.
Hank said no again.
“You realize what the bike is worth?”
The man asked.
Hank looked at the tank.
“Yes.”
The man meant money.
Hank did not.
By the time Eli turned twenty-five, Hank’s beard had gone completely white.
His left knee became unreliable.
Long rides hurt.
He refused to stop until Emma threatened to tell his doctor about an incident involving a ladder and a gutter.
Hank accused her of betrayal.
She called it survival.
Eli returned home that autumn.
He found Hank in the garage.
The black motorcycle sat beneath a cover.
“You ride anymore?”
Hank shrugged.
“Some.”
“That means no.”
“Occasionally.”
“That means no.”
“Your father used to be less annoying.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“True.”
Eli removed the cover.
The drawing remained.
The lines were older.
Some original marks could still be distinguished beneath the restored portions.
Three generations of hands had touched that tank.
Daniel in memory.
Eli at eight.
Eli at fourteen.
Hank in every careful cleaning.
Eli sat on the workbench.
“I got offered a job.”
“Good.”
“In Arizona.”
Hank looked over.
“Far.”
“Yeah.”
“Good pay?”
“Very.”
“You want it?”
“I think so.”
Hank nodded.
“Take it.”
Eli studied him.
“That fast?”
“What?”
“I thought you’d complain.”
“I can complain after you accept.”
Eli laughed.
Then became serious.
“I’ll be farther from Mom.”
“She’ll survive.”
“From you.”
“I have a telephone.”
“You hate video calls.”
“I hate seeing my own face.”
“That’s because you hold the phone under your chin.”
“There are rules for phones now?”
“Yes.”
Hank smiled.
Eli looked toward the motorcycle.
“Grandpa?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you ever wish Dad had stayed?”
Hank took a long time.
“No.”
Eli seemed surprised.
“I wish we hadn’t stopped talking.”
He touched the tank.
“That’s different.”
“If I wish he stayed, I’m wishing away your mom.”
“His teaching.”
“You.”
“All of it.”
Hank looked at Daniel’s drawn face.
“I wish we had loved each other better from the lives we actually chose.”
Eli absorbed that.
“That’s a very therapist sentence.”
“Don’t insult me.”
Eli laughed.
Hank pointed a wrench at him.
“I mean it.”
Three months later, Eli moved to Arizona.
Emma cried.
Hank did not.
Not until everyone left.
Then he sat beside the motorcycle and read Daniel’s letter again.
The paper had softened at every fold.
Do not turn grief into another eight years.
Hank smiled.
“Working on it, kid.”
He folded the letter.
Returned it to the toolbox.
The toolbox now lived in his garage.
Emma had given it to him after Eli graduated.
Not because it belonged to Hank.
Because, she said, “Daniel used it for things he wanted to find again.”
Years accumulated.
Ruth sold the roadhouse to her niece.
Ray died first.