Lucy took the patch to bed.
The next morning, Mara found it beneath her pillow.
She did not remove it.
Hammer did not return for three days.
He thought the family needed space.
Lucy disagreed.
On the fourth afternoon, she came into my diner with Mara.
Hammer’s usual corner booth sat empty.
Lucy frowned.
“Where is he?”
I looked toward Mara.
She shrugged.
“I didn’t invite him.”
Lucy stared at her mother.
“You said coffee.”
“I gave him coffee.”
“Once.”
“That was not a lifetime contract.”
Lucy crossed her arms.
There was Owen in that expression.
I had seen enough photographs by then to know.
Mara lasted twelve seconds.
She sighed.
“Call him.”
I did.
Hammer answered on the second ring.
“What’s wrong?”
That was his greeting.
Nothing could simply be hello.
“Your smallest enemy is looking for you.”
Silence.
Then:
“Lucy?”
“Who else?”
Twenty minutes later a motorcycle stopped outside.
Only one.
Hammer entered without his vest.
Lucy noticed immediately.
“Where is it?”
“At the clubhouse.”
“Why?”
He shrugged.
“Felt unfinished.”
She looked at him.
“The hole?”
“The hole.”
Lucy climbed onto the same red stool.
She reached into the little backpack Mara had bought her.
Pulled out the patch.
Hammer went still.
Mara looked surprised.
Lucy held it toward him.
“Turn around.”
He stared.
“What?”
“Turn around.”
Hammer looked at Mara.
She lifted both hands.
“This is between you two.”
He turned.
Lucy frowned.
“No vest.”
He laughed.
“Right.”
He went outside.
Returned carrying the black leather.
He put it on.
The empty rectangle still exposed Owen’s silver writing.
LET HER CHOOSE THE ROAD.
Lucy climbed back onto the stool.
Held the patch over the empty space.
Hammer did not move.
She stayed there for several seconds.
Then lowered it.
“No.”
Hammer looked over his shoulder.
“No?”
“It covers Daddy’s words.”
He turned around.
Lucy held the patch against her chest.
“I’m keeping this.”
Hammer smiled.
“Good.”
“What goes there?”
He looked at the empty rectangle.
“Nothing.”
“Forever?”
“Maybe.”
Lucy thought.
Then:
“Good.”
Hammer left the space empty.
He still wore the vest.
Over time, the leather around Owen’s handwriting faded further.
The words became harder to read.
Hammer refused to have them rewritten.
“Wasn’t my handwriting.”
he said whenever someone asked.
Lucy kept the patch in a wooden frame Mara hung in her bedroom.
Not under glass at first.
Lucy refused.
“I want to touch it.”
So they built the frame with a little hinged door.