The Boy on the Side of the Road
“How old are you?”
Eli Carter looked at Ray Mercer for several seconds before answering.
“Seventeen.”
Ray nodded slowly.
Seventeen.
That explained the thin face and the oversized jacket. It explained the stubbornness, too.
But it did not explain the tools.
Ray looked down at the teenager's hands.
The fingers were narrow, but there were calluses across the palms. Small burns marked the backs of his knuckles. Grease had worked itself into the lines of his skin so deeply that ordinary soap probably wouldn't remove it.
Those weren't the hands of a kid who had merely watched somebody repair things.
Those were the hands of someone who had done the work.
Ray glanced toward the highway.
“You got family nearby?”
Eli's expression changed.
Only slightly.
But Ray noticed.
“No.”
“No family?”
“Not nearby.”
Ray waited.
Eli tightened the strap of his backpack.
“Thanks for letting me use the tools.”
He started walking.
Ray watched him take five steps.
Then ten.
Something about the boy bothered him.
Not in the way an obnoxious teenager bothered him.
In the way an unfinished sentence bothered him.
Ray looked at his motorcycle.
The temporary brace was ugly.
It was also brilliant.
The boy had understood the problem almost immediately. He had seen the vibration pattern, figured out where the assembly was shifting, and fabricated a support from scrap metal.
Ray had been around mechanics for forty years.
He knew talent when he saw it.
And he knew desperation when he saw that, too.
“Eli!”
The boy stopped.
Ray pointed toward the station.
“You hungry?”
Eli shook his head.
“Already ate.”
“When?”
Silence.
Ray sighed.
“That's what I thought.”
“I'm okay.”
“Didn't ask if you're okay.”
Eli turned.
Ray walked toward the station.
“I'm buying lunch. You can say no after you've eaten.”
“I don't need—”
“Kid, I've been arguing with stubborn men since before you were born. You're going to lose.”
For the first time, Eli smiled.
It was barely there.
But Ray saw it.
Inside the gas station was a small counter selling sandwiches, coffee, chips, and microwaved meals. Ray ordered two cheeseburgers, fries, two bottles of water, and coffee for himself.
Eli stood near the door.
He looked uncomfortable.
Ray pushed one burger toward him.
“Eat.”
Eli sat.
For the first few minutes, he barely spoke.
He ate carefully, almost too carefully, as though he was trying to make the food last.
Ray pretended not to notice.
Instead, he asked, “Your dad teach you?”
Eli stopped chewing.
“Yeah.”
“Good teacher?”
“The best.”
Ray nodded.
“What happened to him?”
Eli swallowed.
“He died.”
“How long ago?”
“Eight months.”
Ray's expression softened.
“I'm sorry.”
Eli stared at the burger.
“He was sick for a while.”
“Cancer?”
“Heart.”
Ray nodded.
“My wife died twenty-seven years ago.”
Eli looked up.
Ray rarely mentioned her.
“Cancer?”
“Yeah.”
“I'm sorry.”
Ray gave a small smile.
“Funny thing about grief.”
Eli waited.
“You think after enough time it'll become smaller.”
Ray looked through the window at the motorcycle.
“It doesn't.”
Eli lowered his eyes.
“It just becomes something you learn to carry.”
Neither spoke for a while.
When they finished eating, Ray paid.
Outside, the gray sky had darkened.
Rain was coming.
Eli picked up his backpack.
Ray looked toward the highway.
“Where exactly are you going?”
“Knoxville.”
“You walking?”
“Mostly.”
Ray stared at him.
“That's over a hundred miles.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
“I need to find someone.”
“Who?”
Eli hesitated.
“My father's old friend.”
“Name?”
“Daniel Carter.”
Ray froze.
The name meant nothing.
But the hesitation did.
“What do you know about him?”
“Not much.”
“Then why find him?”
Eli reached into his backpack.
For a moment Ray expected a phone.
Instead, the boy pulled out an old photograph.
It showed three men standing beside motorcycles.
One was young.
Maybe thirty.
Another had a thick beard.
The third was a younger version of someone Ray knew.
Ray leaned closer.
He stared at the photograph.
His heart gave one hard beat.
The man standing on the left was wearing a faded black riding vest.
On the back was a patch Ray recognized.
Iron Saints.
Ray looked at Eli.
“Where did you get this?”
“My dad kept it.”
“What was his name?”
“Michael Carter.”
Ray looked again.
He knew that face.