They had been there when she was sick.
They had been there when I stopped riding because I couldn't bear leaving her hospital room.
And they had been there when I started riding again because I couldn't stand the silence of my house.
Ron looked toward the door.
“Kid's something, ain't he?”
I swallowed.
“Yeah.”
He watched me.
“You thinking what I'm thinking?”
I glanced toward the little paper envelope Tucker had almost left behind.
Then I looked at my brothers.
“We can't cure him.”
Ron nodded.
“I know.”
“We can't make promises we don't understand.”
“I know that too.”
I looked toward the parking lot where Angie's blue sedan was slowly pulling away.
“But we can do something.”
Ron leaned forward.
“Then let's do it.”
That afternoon, I walked outside the diner and stood beside my motorcycle for nearly twenty minutes without starting the engine.
The others gave me space.
I reached inside my vest.
In the inner pocket, behind my wallet and a folded road map, was a small photograph.
I had carried it for eight years.
The edges were worn.
The protective sleeve was scratched.
The image showed a seven-year-old girl with bright blue eyes, shoulder-length brown hair, and a smile that seemed too big for her face.
She wore a yellow dress.
Her left front tooth was missing.
And she was holding a stuffed rabbit with one ear bent sideways.
Sarah.
My daughter.
My whole world.
I stared at the picture.
Then I whispered something I hadn't said out loud in years.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
The wind moved softly through the parking lot.
Cars passed on the highway.
Somewhere behind me, a truck engine started.
I ran my thumb along the plastic sleeve.
“You would've liked that little guy.”
My throat tightened.
“He's got your kind of courage.”
I stood there for a long time.
Then I placed the photograph back inside my vest.
When I finally climbed onto my motorcycle, Ron was waiting near the exit.
He looked at me.
I nodded.
He nodded back.
We didn't need to say anything.
The Iron Ghosts had accepted a job.
And this time, it wasn't a ride, a repair, or a favor for an old friend.
It was a promise to a five-year-old boy who believed seven dollars and forty cents could buy enough courage to fight the monster inside him.
I had no idea how we were going to keep that promise.
But I knew one thing.
We were going to try.
The first thing we did was call Angie.