He lifted the ring toward the overhead light.
Then turned it over.
Inside were four engraved words.
Always find your way home.
For several seconds, he couldn't move.
The younger mechanics watched silently.
The old man slowly unfolded the photograph.
It showed a younger version of himself standing outside the same garage beside a handsome twenty-four-year-old man with dark hair, a bright smile, and a grease-stained white T-shirt. Between them stood a newly restored red motorcycle, its polished chrome shining beneath the summer sun.
The young man had one arm around his father's shoulders.
Both were laughing.
The photograph had been taken eleven years earlier.
Three weeks before the young man disappeared from Iron Hollow.
Three weeks before the old mechanic told his only son never to come home again.
The man's hand began trembling.
The photograph slipped from his fingers.
One of the mechanics caught it before it reached the floor.
The little girl looked frightened now.
"Sir?"
The old mechanic stared at the ring.
His voice came out as barely more than a whisper.
"Where did you get this?"
She swallowed.
"My daddy gave it to Mommy."
The mechanic looked up.
The girl continued.
"She said if something happened, I had to bring it here."
A terrible coldness moved through his chest.
He stepped around the workbench.
"Something happened to who?"
The girl looked toward the garage entrance.
Then back at him.
Tears began filling her eyes.
"My daddy."
The mechanic crouched in front of her.
For a moment, he couldn't find the words.
Then he asked the question he'd been afraid to ask for eleven years.
"What's your daddy's name?"
The girl whispered it.
And the old mechanic felt his knees give way.
He caught himself against the workbench.
The younger mechanic behind him hurried forward.
"Boss?"
The old man barely heard him.
Because the little girl had just spoken the name of his son.
The son he believed had abandoned him.
The son he'd accused of stealing thirty-one thousand dollars from a children's charity ride.
The son who had vanished from town with no goodbye, no explanation, and no forwarding address.
He looked at the child again.
His eyes filled.
"How old are you?"
"Eight."
The old mechanic swallowed.
For a moment, he stared at her face.
Her light-brown hair.
Her small straight nose.
And the deep crease between her eyebrows when she was trying not to cry.
He'd seen that expression before.
On his son.