Four canvas tarps.
Two old doors balanced across oil drums.
A work light.
A box fan that only succeeded in moving hot air around.
It wasn't much.
But it was hers.
She scavenged parts from motorcycles that had been abandoned by everyone else.
A carburetor from a wrecked Sportster.
Brake lines from a Kawasaki.
A starter relay from a burned motorcycle.
A headlight bucket from an old Honda.
She found a damaged Harley service manual and dried its swollen pages beneath the Texas sun.
Then she began.
The engine fought her.
The fuel tank fought her.
The wiring fought her.
The clutch nearly made her throw a wrench through the wall.
But Lyra had never been frightened by difficult machines.
She spent weeks freeing the seized engine with diesel and transmission fluid, turning the crank a fraction at a time.
She rebuilt the wiring harness.
She cleaned the tank.
She repaired the brakes.
She worked until her knuckles split and her wrists ached.
Sometimes she talked to the motorcycle.
"Come on."
"Give it up."
"I've got time."
She didn't know why she spoke to it.
Perhaps because the bike was the only thing in her life that seemed willing to listen.
One afternoon, Deputy Ryan Holt stopped by.
He had known Lyra for years and had quietly decided that keeping an eye on her was better than forcing her into a system she would disappear from.
He saw the motorcycle.
His expression changed.
"Where'd you find this?"
"Section D."
He looked at the key ring.
For Tommy. Ride free.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
"You know it," Lyra said.
"I know enough."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting."
Before leaving, Holt looked at her.
"Be careful with that one."
"Because it's dangerous?"
"No."
He glanced at the motorcycle.
"Because it belongs to a ghost."
Tommy Callahan
That night, Lyra went to Martha Lou's Diner.
Martha Lou Jenkins was sixty-eight, sharp-tongued, red-haired, and incapable of watching Lyra eat without making sure she had enough food.
Lyra put down her fork.
"Do you know somebody named Tommy?"
Martha Lou stopped pouring coffee.
"What Tommy?"
"The bike I found."
The older woman's face changed.
"Where did you find it?"
"Section D."
Martha Lou slowly sat down.
"Tommy Callahan."
Lyra waited.
"His father was Jack Callahan."
"Who?"
Martha Lou lowered her voice.
"Most people called him Grave."
She explained that Jack had once been a feared biker and a Vietnam veteran. He had spent years riding with a motorcycle club and had earned a reputation that made people think twice before crossing him.