Rusty checked the recorder without altering the original file, then connected it to a safe playback device so they wouldn't risk losing the recording. Mara sat on an old wooden bench with Leo beside her, and the men gave them space.
The first sound was a faint click.
Then Arthur Hayes spoke.
“Okay. I think this thing is recording.”
Leo's entire body went still.
Arthur laughed softly.
“Knowing me, I've probably pressed the wrong button.”
Mara covered her mouth.
Then his voice continued.
“Hey, Leo. It's Dad.”
The boy made a small sound.
Not quite a cry.
Not quite a word.
He leaned against Mara, staring toward the recorder as though his father might somehow appear beside it.
“I don't know how old you'll be when you hear this. Maybe eight. Maybe eighteen. Maybe your mother will decide I talk too much and hide it until you're thirty.”
Mara laughed through her tears.
Arthur continued.
“I wanted to tell you some things before I forgot how to say them.”
The room became silent.
“First, I love you. More than motorcycles, more than machines, more than anything I've ever built. You are the best thing that ever happened to me.”
Leo's face crumpled.
Mara wrapped her arms around him.
Arthur paused on the recording.
Then continued, his voice softer.
“Second, you don't have to become me. You can be a mechanic, a teacher, an artist, a doctor, or somebody who spends all day studying bugs. I don't care, as long as you grow into a good man who treats people kindly.”
Leo pressed his face against Mara's shoulder.
“And third, if the world ever makes you feel small, remember that being small doesn't mean having nothing important to say.”
Rusty lowered his head.
Big Dave slowly turned away.
Arthur gave a quiet laugh.
“Some of the best ideas I've ever heard came from people nobody wanted to listen to.”
The recording continued for several minutes.
Arthur talked about the day Leo was born, how he'd been frightened to hold such a tiny baby, and how Mara laughed at him for asking whether newborns came with instructions. He described the first wooden motorcycle he'd made for his son and the way Leo insisted on sleeping with it.
Then his tone changed.
“If you ever find yourself standing around Dutch's old FXR with a bunch of grown men arguing about what's wrong, remember something for me.”
Leo looked up.
“Ask questions. Tell them what you remember. But let the people who know how to do the dangerous work handle the tools.”