She slid out.
The man standing above her was enormous.
Six-foot-three.
White beard.
Broad shoulders.
Old tattoos faded beneath weathered skin.
He wore a leather vest with no patches.
Only pale outlines remained where they had once been.
His eyes went straight to the motorcycle.
Then to Lyra.
"That bike killed my son."
Lyra slowly stood.
"Step off it."
She tightened her grip on the wrench.
Then she pointed toward the key ring.
"Why does his key chain say 'Ride free'?"
The old man's jaw tightened.
"I want it back."
"Okay."
He seemed surprised.
Lyra stepped aside.
Then she said, "But you should know what I did to it first."
He frowned.
"I don't care."
"You should."
For the next several minutes, she explained every repair.
Every part.
Every hour.
Every problem.
Jack listened.
When she mentioned the key ring, his expression changed.
"It was already there?"
"In the ignition."
Jack looked away.
For the first time, he seemed less like a dangerous man and more like an exhausted father.
He sat beside the motorcycle.
"Tommy was nineteen when he bought it."
And then he began telling her about his son.
Eleven Years
Tommy had been stubborn.
Funny.
Reckless.
Too much like his father.
He worked at a tire shop and saved every dollar until he could afford the Sportster.
Jack hated the motorcycle.
Not because it was dangerous.
Because it represented everything Jack feared.
Tommy wanted to ride with him.
Jack refused.
Twice.
Then three times.
But a boy determined to become a man doesn't always understand the walls built to protect him.
Tommy eventually entered the motorcycle world anyway.
Jack spent a year trying to pull him away.
He failed.
Then came the night of the club dispute.
Jack never explained every detail.
He didn't need to.
Some memories were sharp enough without being spoken aloud.
Tommy died.
Jack brought the motorcycle to Hector's Salvage the next morning.
Then he walked away from everything.
"I couldn't destroy it," he said.
"Couldn't look at it."
"Couldn't sell it."
"So you buried it."
"I left it."
"Same thing."
Jack looked at her.
"You got a mouth on you."
"I've been told."
For the first time, something almost resembling a smile crossed his face.
Then Lyra asked the question she hadn't intended to ask.
"Do you ever think about him?"
Jack's face broke.
He covered his eyes.
His shoulders began to shake.
Lyra had never seen a man cry like that.
She didn't know what to do.
So she sat beside him.
Not too close.
Just close enough.
"He sounds like he was worth grieving," she whispered.