It was absurd.
It was also the most normal either had felt in years.
The older brother finally asked:
“What time is surgery?”
“Seven tomorrow morning.”
“Where?”
“Phoenix.”
The giant biker looked toward the garage.
Then at his brother.
“We leave at four.”
The younger brother shook his head.
“No.”
The older man stared.
“No?”
“I’m not bringing forty motorcycles to a hospital.”
“Who said forty?”
“I know you.”
“Twenty?”
“No.”
“Ten.”
“No.”
The older brother folded his arms.
“One.”
The younger brother laughed.
“You?”
“Yes.”
“You ride beside us?”
“Yes.”
“I’m driving.”
“Fine.”
“I don’t need an escort.”
“You’re getting one.”
The younger brother studied him.
Seventeen years ago, that tone would have infuriated him.
Now it sounded strangely familiar.
“Fine.”
The giant biker nodded.
“Good.”
His brother pointed.
“One.”
“One.”
“No club spectacle.”
“No spectacle.”
“No revving outside the hospital.”
“That’s offensive.”
“One.”
The older brother nodded.
“One.”
The boy rolled down the truck window.
“Can we go eat?”
Both men turned.
The giant biker stared at him.
“What?”
“I’m hungry.”
The older man looked toward his brother.
“You feed him?”
“Usually.”
“When?”
“Breakfast.”
“It’s four.”
“He had crackers.”
The giant biker looked horrified.
“You’re having heart surgery tomorrow and feeding my nephew crackers?”
The younger brother laughed.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“You found out you’re an uncle twenty minutes ago and you’re already criticizing my parenting.”
The older brother pointed toward the garage.
“Food.”
The boy opened the truck door immediately.
The giant biker looked toward his brother.
“See?”
“He likes me.”
“He likes food.”
“Close enough.”
They crossed the road together.
The garage went silent when all three entered.
The boy walked ahead.
The giant biker followed.
His younger brother came last.
Every man in the room recognized the resemblance now.
The older biker near the booth stood.
He had known the younger brother before the estrangement.
His face changed.
“You little son of a—”
The younger brother smiled.
“You got uglier.”
The old biker crossed the room and hugged him.
Not cautiously.
Not with permission.
Hard.
The younger brother made a noise somewhere between a laugh and complaint.
“Still crushing people?”
“You disappeared.”
“So everybody tells me.”
The older biker released him.
Then hit his shoulder.
“Idiot.”
“Good to see you too.”
Others approached.
Some knew him.
Some only knew stories.
The giant biker raised one hand.
“That’s enough.”
Everyone stopped.
“My nephew needs food.”
The boy raised his hand.
“Burger.”
The garage owner laughed.
“This is a repair shop.”