The first thing Caleb Mercer noticed about the Dust Reapers clubhouse was the motorcycles.
They stood beneath the Arizona sun in two long black rows, chrome flashing so brightly that he had to squint. Some had high handlebars. Others carried enormous saddlebags and windshields clouded by years of road dust. Every one of them looked expensive, heavy, and dangerous.
The second thing Caleb noticed was the red gasoline container sitting beside an open storage shed.
He stopped behind a sun-bleached wooden fence and stared at it.
Seven miles.
That was how far he had walked from the broken Chevrolet parked beside Route 89.
Seven miles beneath a sky so bright and empty that the highway seemed to melt into the desert.
Seven miles while his mother waited in the passenger seat because she had become too sick to stand without getting dizzy.
Caleb’s T-shirt had dried stiff with sweat. Dust coated his sneakers. His small backpack felt like someone had filled it with stones, even though there was almost nothing inside except two granola bars, an empty water bottle, and the cheap plastic inhaler his mother had told him to bring even though he was the one who rarely needed it.
He looked toward the clubhouse again.
Men moved inside the shadowed doorway.
Big men.
Leather vests.
Beards.
Tattooed arms.
One laughed loudly enough that Caleb heard it across the yard.
He ducked lower.
His mother had always told him that stealing was wrong.
She had said it enough times that he could hear her voice now.
If it isn't yours, you don't take it.
But she had also told him never to leave someone sick in a hot car.
She had told him to find help.
Nobody had stopped.
Not the white SUV.
Not the delivery van.
Not the pickup towing two horses.
Caleb had stood beside the highway waving both arms until his shoulders hurt.
Cars simply moved over and continued north.
His mother’s skin had become pale beneath the redness caused by the heat.
Her lips were dry.
She had been sick for three days with what she insisted was probably the flu, though that morning the fever had become worse.
Then the old Chevrolet had sputtered.
The engine died.
The fuel gauge had been unreliable for months.
His mother turned the key twice before closing her eyes.
“Of course.”
Caleb had looked at her.
“What?”
“We’re out of gas.”
Then she leaned against the window and began shivering despite the heat.
Caleb had never been more frightened.
He tried her phone.
Dead.
His own cheap prepaid phone had no service.
The nearest sign he remembered seeing was for a gas station several miles back, but when he reached it on foot, he found the station closed permanently.
Then he saw the motorcycles in the distance.
Now, standing beside the Dust Reapers clubhouse, Caleb knew he had two choices.
Ask.
Or steal.
Asking should have been easier.
But eleven-year-old boys did not always make decisions according to what should have been easier.
The men frightened him.
The gasoline did not.
Caleb slipped behind the fence.
Nobody shouted.
He crouched between two motorcycles and moved toward the red container.
It was full enough that he struggled to lift it.
His heart hammered.
He looked toward the building.
Still nothing.
He needed only a gallon.
Maybe two.
Enough to get the Chevrolet to town.
Caleb found a clear plastic hose hanging near the storage shed.
He did not really understand siphoning, but he had watched his mother’s brother do it once on a lawn mower.
He dragged the gas can beside the nearest motorcycle.
The bike was enormous.
Black paint.
Silver engine.
A skull decal near the tank.
Caleb twisted open the gasoline container.
Then he reached toward the motorcycle.
A voice behind him said, “You planning to ask that bike permission before you rob it?”
Caleb froze.
He turned slowly.
Six men stood behind him.
For one terrible second, nobody moved.
The largest man was somewhere in his late fifties, with a thick gray beard and shoulders that seemed wider than Caleb’s entire body. A black leather vest covered a faded gray T-shirt. A patch across his chest read:
BEAR
Caleb let go of the hose.
It hit the gravel.
“I wasn’t—”
The biker raised one eyebrow.
Caleb looked at the red gasoline container between his knees.
There was no useful ending to that sentence.
Another biker stepped forward.
“You weren't what?”
Caleb swallowed.
“Stealing.”
The biker looked at Bear.
Bear looked at Caleb.
Then Bear said, “Kid, I'm not a lawyer, but your defense needs work.”
Two men behind him laughed.
Caleb did not.
Bear noticed.
The amusement disappeared from his expression.
“How old are you?”
Caleb said nothing.
The second biker pointed toward the road.
“Where are your parents?”
Caleb tightened both hands around the gas can handle.
Bear glanced down.