Grant’s heart skipped.
“When?”
“Grandma says Sunday.”
Grant looked at the calendar though he knew perfectly well he had nothing scheduled.
“I can come Sunday.”
The drive took one hour and forty minutes.
Grant arrived at a modest house outside Johnson City shortly before noon.
He deliberately did not ride his motorcycle.
Too much symbolism.
He brought no club members.
No giant gift.
Only a paper bag containing bakery cinnamon rolls because Noah mentioned them once on the phone.
The grandmother opened the door.
“Good.”
Grant frowned.
“What?”
“You didn’t bring twenty motorcycles.”
“I considered nineteen.”
She smiled.
Noah ran from the hallway.
He stopped several feet away as if unsure whether hugging was allowed.
Grant had the same uncertainty.
So he held up the cinnamon rolls.
“Peace offering.”
Noah grabbed the bag.
“Come on.”
He led Grant through the small house.
Photographs covered one wall.
Rachel holding newborn Noah.
Lucas beside them.
Lucas and Noah fishing.
Birthday cake.
A school play.
A Christmas tree.
Grant stopped before one photograph.
Lucas was bald from chemotherapy, visibly thin, sitting in a garage chair.
Noah stood beside him holding the tiny motorcycle before the leather seat had been installed.
Both were laughing.
Grant touched the edge of the frame.
“He looked…”
“Sick?” the grandmother asked.
“Yes.”
“He hated that word.”
Grant smiled sadly.
“So did he.”
Noah pulled Grant toward the garage.
Inside sat a real motorcycle beneath a tarp.
Grant stopped.
Noah smiled.
“Dad’s.”
Grant pulled the tarp away.
A 1998 Harley-Davidson Dyna.
Black.
Dusty.
Partially disassembled.
Grant knew the bike instantly.
He had helped Lucas buy it when Lucas turned nineteen.
“This…”
“He kept it?”
The grandmother nodded.
“Everywhere.”
“Arizona?”
“Yes.”
“Colorado for two years.”
“Then back to Tennessee.”
Grant touched the fuel tank.
The old Iron Hollow wolf had been removed.
Only a faint outline remained where the paint once faded around the decal.
Noah opened a cabinet.
Boxes of parts.
Tools.
A service manual.
And another miniature component.
A tiny chrome exhaust pipe.
“Dad didn’t finish the toy.”
Grant looked at him.
“What’s missing?”
“This.”
Noah held up the miniature exhaust.
“He made it the week before he went to the hospital.”
“Then he got too weak.”
Grant swallowed.
Noah looked at him.
“Can you put it on?”
The question sounded small.
Grant understood it was not.
He pulled over a stool.
“Get the toy.”
Noah ran inside.
For the next hour they worked.
Grant deliberately made Noah do most of it.
The boy’s hands were clumsy.