The vest he wore carried the Iron Hollow wolf across the back.
Above one pocket, stitched in small letters, was a single word.
PRESIDENT.
Grant rarely needed to raise his voice.
That was one reason people listened when he did not.
The younger biker stepped away from Noah.
“We’re just messing around.”
Grant looked at the tiny motorcycle in Noah’s arms.
Then at the child’s face.
“He laughing?”
The young biker glanced toward Noah.
“No.”
Grant nodded.
“Then maybe you’re the only one having fun.”
The younger man’s expression changed.
Grant pointed toward the miniature bike.
“You kick that?”
“I barely touched it.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
The biker swallowed.
“Yeah.”
Grant held out one hand.
“Your keys.”
The younger man stared.
“What?”
“Keys.”
“Grant—”
“Today you seem confused about which motorcycles belong to you.”
The men nearby stopped smiling.
Cody reluctantly reached into his pocket and handed over his motorcycle keys.
Grant closed his fist around them.
“You can have them back when the kid leaves.”
“Seriously?”
“Walk away before I decide you need a bus schedule.”
Cody looked embarrassed, but he obeyed.
His two friends followed.
Grant waited until they were several yards away.
Then he looked at Noah.
Up close, the child appeared even younger.
Thin wrists.
Worn sneakers.
Faded navy shirt.
Dust across one knee.
But the boy’s eyes were steady.
Grant crouched.
“Damage?”
Noah examined the miniature motorcycle.
He rotated the front wheel.
Pressed the fork.
Checked the tiny handlebars the way his father had taught him.
“No.”
Grant nodded.
“Good.”
Noah studied him.
“You’re the president?”
Grant looked toward his vest.
“Apparently.”
“My dad said presidents usually talk too much.”
Grant almost smiled.
“Your dad sounds smart.”
“He was.”
The word was past tense.
Grant noticed.
He looked again at the motorcycle.
“Your father built that?”
Noah nodded.
“All of it?”
“Mostly.”
“What’s the frame made from?”
“Old brake line.”
Grant’s eyes narrowed with interest.
He leaned closer.
The miniature machine had not been assembled from a toy kit.
He could see that now.
The frame used bent stainless brake tubing. The handlebars appeared to have been cut from an old clutch lever assembly. The tiny fuel tank had been shaped from two pieces of sheet metal and brazed together. The headlight housing looked suspiciously like the cap from an antique speedometer.
Whoever built it understood motorcycles.
Not as decoration.
Mechanically.
Grant reached toward it, then stopped.
“Can I?”
Noah hesitated.
Then carefully lowered the bike onto the pavement.
Grant lifted it.
He immediately felt the weight.
He turned it in his hands.
The craftsmanship made something inside him uncomfortable.
Familiar.
There was a particular way the rear fender had been rolled at the edges.
A small crescent-shaped weld beneath the frame.
Grant had seen that style hundreds of times decades earlier in the clubhouse garage.
He stared.
“Who was your dad?”