Not yet.
They took two smaller bikes along a quiet country road.
Grant kept himself half a length behind.
He remembered teaching Lucas.
Remembered his little brother speeding ahead.
Remembered yelling.
Remembered everything.
At a roadside overlook, they stopped.
Noah removed his helmet.
“Did Dad like riding?”
Grant nodded.
“He loved going fast.”
“Was he good?”
“No.”
Noah laughed.
“Really?”
“He thought confidence counted as technique.”
“Sounds like him.”
“You barely remember him riding.”
“No.”
Noah looked toward the valley.
“But I remember him building.”
Grant understood.
Lucas had given his son something better than speed.
Patience.
Hands.
Pieces.
Home.
When Noah turned eighteen, Grant finally gave him the restored Dyna.
They rolled it from the grandmother’s garage.
The black paint shone except where they deliberately preserved the old scratch.
Noah stared.
“I thought we were keeping it here.”
Grant handed him the key.
“We were.”
“What changed?”
“You.”
Noah looked at the key.
Then at Grant.
“I don’t know if I’m ready.”
Grant smiled.
“Good.”
“That’s why you probably are.”
Noah inserted the key.
Then stopped.
“Come with me.”
Grant’s throat tightened.
“Where?”
“You know.”
They rode to the cemetery.
Lucas’s grave sat beneath a maple tree on a gentle hill.
Noah parked the Dyna beside the path.
Grant left his motorcycle farther away.
They walked the final distance.
The headstone read:
LUCAS JAMES MERCER
BELOVED HUSBAND
DEVOTED FATHER
STUBBORN BROTHER
Grant stared.
“That third line wasn’t there before.”
Noah smiled.
“Grandma added it.”
Grant laughed.
They sat on the grass.
Noah placed the miniature motorcycle beside the headstone.
He had carried it carefully inside a padded case.
For a while neither spoke.
Then Noah said:
“I used to think Dad sent me to find you because he knew I’d need someone.”
Grant looked at him.
“What do you think now?”
“He sent me because you needed someone too.”
Grant’s eyes filled.
“That sounds annoyingly wise.”
“Runs in the family.”
“No evidence.”
Noah smiled.
Then became quiet.
“I barely remember his voice anymore.”
Grant’s heart hurt.
He had feared that.
“I have recordings.”
“I know.”
“It’s not the same.”
“No.”
Noah touched the headstone.
“Sometimes I feel guilty.”
“For what?”
“For forgetting things.”
Grant looked toward Lucas’s name.
“Memory isn’t loyalty.”