Rusty looked away.
So did Big Dave.
Gravel stood beside the motorcycle with his hands resting against the back of the seat.
For a moment, he imagined Dutch standing there.
Laughing.
Complaining.
Demanding that somebody hurry up because the coast wasn't going to ride itself.
Then the old biker took a breath.
“Time to bring him home.”
At nine-thirty, the memorial ceremony began.
Riders gathered near the entrance to Apex Iron Works while the organizers confirmed the route and prepared the procession.
The crowd was enormous.
Leather jackets.
Motorcycle helmets.
Flags.
Memorial photographs.
And hundreds of people who had traveled to honor a man whose greatest accomplishment wasn't wealth or fame.
It was friendship.
Gravel stepped onto a small platform beside the garage.
He held a microphone.
For several seconds, he looked over the crowd.
Then he took a breath.
“Most of you knew Dutch Sullivan.”
The riders became quiet.
Gravel continued.
“Some of you rode with him for thirty years. Some knew him for three. A few probably met him only once and still remember every ridiculous word he said.”
Laughter moved through the gathering.
The old biker smiled sadly.
“He was stubborn. Loud. Sometimes impossible.”
More laughter.
“And he loved that black FXR more than most people love their houses.”
Several riders nodded.
Gravel looked toward the motorcycle.
“But there's something about that bike a lot of you don't know.”
He paused.
“Dutch didn't build its heart alone.”
The crowd became quiet.
Gravel continued.
“A machinist named Arthur Hayes helped him keep that engine alive through years when most shops would've told him to replace it.”
Mara lowered her eyes.
Leo stood beside her.
Gravel looked toward them.
“Arty died two years ago. Dutch took it hard.”
For a moment, his voice broke.
Then he continued.
“And three months ago, we lost Dutch too.”
The gathering became silent.
Gravel rested one hand against the microphone stand.
“We promised his motorcycle would lead today's ride. Two weeks ago, it stopped running.”
He looked toward Rusty.
“Six good mechanics worked themselves half to death trying to understand it.”
A few riders smiled.
“Then an eight-year-old boy with a broom told them they were looking at the wrong timing marks.”
The crowd stirred.
Gravel smiled.
“That boy was Arthur Hayes's son.”
He turned toward Leo.
“Come here, son.”
The child froze.
Mara squeezed his hand.
“You can go.”
Leo slowly approached the platform.
Gravel crouched beside him.
Then looked toward the crowd.
“This is Leo.”