One beside his bed.
Another on the refrigerator.
And a third in the living room, showing the three of them at a county fair.
The old biker had known the family for nearly twenty years.
He'd been a close friend of the boy's father.
They shared a love of motorcycles, old engines, and long conversations that sometimes continued well past midnight.
When the father died, the biker began visiting more frequently.
At first, he brought food.
Then he repaired the porch steps.
Then the garage door.
Then the kitchen faucet.
He never asked for payment.
Whenever the mother tried to give him money, he waved her away.
"Your husband would've done it for me."
She knew that was true.
The biker was seventy-six now, but his hands remained strong.
He had spent most of his working life as a motorcycle mechanic.
His shop had closed several years earlier, and he lived alone in a small house outside town.
He still belonged to a motorcycle club called the Ridge Road Riders.
The club included retired mechanics, factory workers, veterans, truck drivers, and people who simply loved riding.
Some members looked intimidating.
Leather vests.
Gray beards.
Tattooed arms.
Loud motorcycles.
But their usual activities were ordinary.
Weekend rides.
Charity fundraisers.
Repairing motorcycles.
And helping local families who couldn't afford certain vehicle repairs.
The boy loved them.
Whenever the club stopped at the diner, he'd ask his mother if they could go look at the motorcycles.
She usually agreed.
The elderly biker was his favorite.
The child called him "Grandpa Biker," even though they weren't related.
The nickname made the old man laugh.
He pretended to dislike it.
But the other riders noticed that he smiled every time the boy said it.
The biker had one prized possession.
A black touring motorcycle he'd owned for decades.
Its engine had been rebuilt several times.
The paint was scratched.
The chrome showed its age.
And the leather seat had been repaired so often that the stitching looked like a patchwork of different years.
He loved that motorcycle.
He'd ridden it across the country.
Through desert heat.
Mountain rain.
And long empty stretches of highway where the only sound was the engine beneath him.
When his wife was alive, she'd sometimes travel with him.
They'd stop at roadside diners.
Take photographs beside mountain overlooks.