Three stick figures beside a house.
One tall.
One small.
One angel in the clouds.
Raven noticed.
She looked away before Luke saw.
The road wound through farmland.
Luke drove with one hand resting lightly on the wheel.
He did not ask where Raven came from.
Did not ask where she was going.
Did not ask why someone wearing expensive riding boots had a motorcycle worth enough to buy his truck several times.
Instead he said:
“If you’re headed west, weather’s coming.”
Raven looked through the windshield.
Sky still clear.
“You sure?”
“My knee says so.”
Emma leaned forward.
“His phone says so.”
Luke nodded.
“My phone confirms what the knee already knew.”
Raven looked at him.
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-seven.”
“Your knee is too young to predict weather.”
“My knee had a disagreement with a transmission jack when I was twenty-four.”
“Did the jack apologize?”
“No.”
“Rude.”
Luke smiled.
The garage sat behind a small white farmhouse on six acres bordered by maple trees and an old split-rail fence.
It was not really a commercial garage.
More a converted barn with two wide doors, a concrete floor, and enough equipment inside to make it obvious Luke repaired more than lawnmowers.
An old pickup sat partly disassembled in one bay.
A restored 1968 Triumph occupied another.
Shelves held labeled parts bins.
An engine hoist stood near the wall.
Raven noticed everything.
Order without money.
Nothing matching.
Everything maintained.
Luke backed the truck toward the open garage.
Emma jumped out.
“Can I get lemonade?”
“Homework first.”
“I have no homework.”
“You said that yesterday and then remembered math at bedtime.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“I forgot.”
Luke stared.
“Homework.”
Emma marched toward the house.
“Oppression.”
Raven covered a smile.
Luke looked at her.
“I don’t know where she learns these words.”
“Probably school.”
“Then taxes really are destroying families.”
They unloaded the motorcycle.
Luke rolled it beneath a hanging light.
Raven stood beside him.
“What do you think?”
“Give me fifteen minutes.”
She removed her riding jacket.
Beneath it she wore a dark navy wrap blouse and fitted black trousers.
Luke looked once.
Only once.
Then returned to the bike.
Raven noticed that too.
She had spent most of her twenties learning the difference between being seen and being assessed.
Luke saw her.
He did not inventory her.
That should not have felt rare.
It did.
He removed the side panel.
Checked the battery.
Good.
Ignition relay.
Good.
Fuel pressure.
Not good.
Luke traced the line farther back.
Then stopped.
His expression sharpened.
Raven stepped closer.
“What?”
He pointed.
“See that?”
She crouched.
A small cut in a hose.
Not clean through.
Enough to disturb pressure when vibration widened it.
Raven frowned.
“Road debris?”
“Maybe.”
Luke did not sound convinced.
He removed the line.
Turned it under the light.
“Maybe not.”
“Why?”
He showed her the edge.
“This wasn’t rubbed through.”
“What does that mean?”
“Could mean it got nicked during maintenance.”
Raven’s stomach tightened.