For one second, both men almost laughed.
Then the older brother’s expression hardened again.
“Why now?”
The younger brother looked toward his son.
The boy stared at the gravel.
“Go wait by the truck.”
The child frowned.
“Why?”
“Because I need to talk to your uncle.”
The word landed heavily.
Uncle.
The boy looked toward the giant biker.
The giant biker could not speak.
The child moved to the passenger side.
The younger brother looked at his older sibling.
“I’m having surgery tomorrow.”
The giant biker’s face changed.
“What surgery?”
“Heart.”
Silence.
The older brother laughed once.
Not because anything was funny.
“What do you mean heart?”
“They found a valve problem.”
“How long?”
“Known?”
“Yes.”
“Almost a year.”
The older brother stared.
“You knew for a year?”
“Yes.”
“And this is when you come?”
“Yes.”
“You always were good with timing.”
The younger brother looked toward the mountains.
“Surgeon says odds are good.”
The giant biker’s shoulders loosened slightly.
“Good how?”
“Good enough that I’m supposed to stop acting like it’s a funeral.”
“Then why are you here?”
The younger brother looked toward the boy.
The older man followed his gaze.
Understanding came slowly.
Then all at once.
“No.”
The younger brother looked back.
“No what?”
“You did not come here to hand me your kid.”
“I came here so he would know he had family.”
“No.”
“You don’t get to say no to that.”
“I get to say no to you talking like you’re already dead.”
The boy looked toward them from the truck.
The younger brother lowered his voice.
“I’m not planning to die.”
“Then stop organizing people for after.”
“That’s what parents do.”
The giant biker stared.
“How would you know?”
The sentence came out before he could stop it.
The younger brother flinched.
Silence.
The older brother immediately regretted it.
But old reflexes were quick.
The younger brother looked away.
“Right.”
The giant biker closed his eyes.
“That was cheap.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
The younger brother looked back.
The apology seemed to surprise him more than the insult.
The giant biker continued.
“I don’t know how to do this.”
“Neither do I.”
The older brother held up the wrench again.
“You disappear for eighteen years.”
“Seventeen.”
“You counting?”
“Yes.”
“That’s worse.”
“Probably.”
“You don’t call.”
“I wrote.”
The giant biker’s jaw tightened.
“I sent them back.”
“Yes.”
“You stopped.”
“Yes.”
“You should’ve kept sending.”
The younger brother stared.
“You wrote ‘don’t ever contact me again’ on the last one.”
“That was seventeen years ago.”