“I tried.”
“There’s a little vest.”
“Not club colors.”
“You don’t inherit a club.”
“You choose people.”
“That matters.”
Then the engine sound changed.
Slower.
A male voice farther away said something we could not make out.
Hammer’s younger voice.
Owen answered:
“I’m fine.”
The recorded Hammer said:
“No, you’re not.”
Owen laughed.
“See?”
“He’s always dramatic.”
Present-day Hammer looked at Mara.
“I was not.”
The recorder continued.
Owen’s breathing became harder.
“Lucy.”
“I think we’re getting close.”
The girl looked terrified.
Mara almost reached for the stop button.
Lucy grabbed it first.
“No.”
She wanted the whole truth.
Owen said:
“The canyon’s on my right.”
“Red rock.”
“Sun’s going down.”
“I wish you could see it.”
A pause.
“Maybe someday.”
“Your choice.”
Then a long breath.
“If I don’t get another chance…”
“I love you.”
“Mara…”
“I love you.”
“Hammer…”
“Get me home.”
There was sudden movement.
The recorder struck something.
Someone shouted.
Wind rushed.
Then Hammer’s voice.
“Rook!”
Several motorcycles stopped.
Boots.
Heavy breathing.
“Stay with me.”
Another rider yelled:
“Truck!”
Hammer again:
“Rook, look at me.”
Owen made a weak sound.
Then:
“Promise.”
Hammer shouted:
“Not now.”
“Promise.”
“Shut up.”
“Patch.”
Hammer’s voice broke.
“Fine.”
“Promise.”
“I promise.”
“Lucy chooses.”
“I promise.”
Then Owen whispered something.
The recording distorted.
Lucy leaned closer.
We all did.
The last clear words were:
“Tell my girls…”
Then nothing.
Hammer stopped the recorder.
Lucy screamed:
“No!”
Not anger.
Grief.
The kind children have when a lost person becomes briefly alive and then disappears again.
She grabbed the recorder.
“Play it.”
Hammer looked toward Mara.
Lucy cried:
“Play it again.”
Mara knelt.
“Baby.”
“I want Daddy.”
The sentence broke everyone.
Mara wrapped her arms around Lucy.
“I know.”
“I want him.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want letters.”
“I know.”
“I want Daddy.”
Mara held her while the girl sobbed against her shoulder.
No adult tried to explain death.
There are moments when explanation is an insult.
We simply stood there.
Eventually Lucy’s crying weakened.
She looked toward Hammer.
“Did he say anything after?”
Hammer crouched.
For a man his size, it was awkward.
He lowered himself until they were closer to eye level.
“Yes.”
“What?”
Hammer swallowed.
“He woke up once in the truck.”
“He asked if I had the patch.”
“I said yes.”
“He told me not to lose the key.”
Lucy touched her pocket.
“Then?”
“He asked if the sun was still out.”
“It was.”
“I opened the back doors so he could see.”