Another.
“Hank.”
Nora looked at the open space beside them.
“There’s room.”
Eli smiled.
Hank did too.
Nora opened her sketchbook.
“What are you doing?”
Hank asked.
“Nothing.”
That answer made him immediately suspicious.
She removed a white marker.
Hank stared.
Then looked at Eli.
“You planned this.”
Eli lifted both hands.
“I gave her a marker.”
“You absolutely planned it.”
Nora uncapped it.
Click.
Hank looked at the motorcycle.
He had spent decades protecting that tank.
Rain covers.
Clear coating.
Temperature control.
Special cloths.
No chemicals.
No careless hands.
At seventy-eight, he finally understood the motorcycle had never become valuable because nothing happened to it.
It mattered because things had.
A dent from Daniel.
A drawing from Eli.
Time.
Miles.
Return.
Hank stepped aside.
Nora looked surprised.
“I can draw?”
“One thing.”
“What?”
“Something worth remembering.”
She thought.
Then placed the marker against the tank.
A small white line appeared beside the old drawing.
Eli watched.
Hank watched.
Nora drew three figures.
One older.
One middle-sized.
One small.
Their hands connected.
The proportions were awful.
The oldest figure had arms nearly touching the ground.
The smallest appeared to have four fingers on one hand and seven on the other.
Hank smiled.
“Perfect.”
Eli laughed.
“It’s objectively terrible.”
Hank pointed toward him.
“Watch yourself.”
Nora added an H beneath the old initials.
“No.”
She stopped.
“What?”
Hank handed the marker back.
“Your initial.”
“N.”
“Oh.”
She corrected it.
Daniel.
Eli.
Hank.
Nora.
Hank stared at the four letters.
Eli placed one hand on his shoulder.
“You okay?”
“Residual wind.”
“We’re indoors.”
“Garage draft.”
“There’s no draft.”
Hank looked at him.
“Your father was easier.”
Eli laughed.
“No, he wasn’t.”
Nora climbed onto a stool.
“Tell me about Grandpa Daniel.”
Hank looked at the motorcycle.
Where to start?
The cap?
The eyebrow?
The birdhouse?
The stolen six-foot motorcycle ride?
Googly eyes?
Burned pancakes?
The eight silent years?
The letter?
The son who had once drawn his father because he was afraid everyone was putting him away?
Hank pulled another stool toward them.
“All right.”
Nora sat straighter.
“He was stubborn.”
Eli laughed.
Hank continued.
“He was funny.”
“Was he an artist?”
“The best.”