At two in the morning, Martha handed Dean a mug of coffee.
He stared at it.
"You had coffee down here?"
"Of course."
"During a tornado?"
Martha frowned.
"Do you think I was going to face a tornado without coffee?"
Dean laughed.
For the first time that night, Martha smiled.
Then Dean looked toward the steel door.
"Your husband built this?"
"Samuel."
"Where is he?"
Martha's expression changed.
"Dead."
Dean lowered his eyes.
"I'm sorry."
"He was a good man."
She sat beside him.
"He would have liked all of you."
Dean looked around.
"Really?"
"He liked fixing things."
Dean laughed.
"Most of us are things that need fixing."
Martha looked at him.
"Then maybe you came to the right house."
The Morning After
Dawn revealed the damage.
Cedar Ridge looked as if someone had dragged an enormous blade across the landscape.
Barns were gone.
Trees lay across roads.
Power lines were tangled in fields.
Cars had been thrown into ditches.
Martha's porch roof had disappeared.
The old chicken coop was now halfway across the pasture.
The roof of the barn had collapsed.
But the house still stood.
The basement was untouched.
Seventy-nine motorcycles were scattered across the property.
Some were damaged.
Several were overturned.
Two were buried beneath branches.
Dean walked slowly through the debris.
Martha came outside carrying a cup of coffee.
He looked at the house.
"You've lost a lot."
Martha shrugged.
"I've lost worse."
Dean looked at her.
"What?"
She didn't answer immediately.
"My husband."
Dean nodded.
"That'll do it."
Martha studied him.
"You've lost somebody too."
It wasn't a question.
Dean looked away.
"My daughter."
Martha waited.
"Eight years ago."
"I'm sorry."
"Me too."
They stood in silence.
Behind them, riders were helping each other recover motorcycles.
Nobody complained.
Nobody left.
The group stayed for most of the day.
They cleared fallen trees.
Repaired fencing.
Moved debris.
They found Martha's old mailbox three hundred yards away.
Someone found a photograph from her kitchen.
Another rider found Samuel's toolbox.
Martha held it to her chest.
Dean noticed.
"That mean something?"
"He built half this farm with these tools."
Dean nodded.
"We'll put it back."
Martha smiled.
"You don't have to."
"We know."
They kept working.
By sunset, the driveway was clear.
The damaged motorcycles had been moved under shelter.
The house was covered with temporary tarps.
The riders began preparing to leave.
Martha stood near the road.
Dean approached.
"We should go."
"I know."
He reached into his vest.
He pulled out a small card.
"That's my number."
Martha looked at it.
"Why?"
"If you need anything."
"I have a telephone."
"I know."
"And neighbors."
"I know."
"Then why give me your number?"
Dean smiled.
"Because you gave us your basement."
Martha shook her head.
"Anyone would have done the same."
Dean looked toward the empty highway.
"No."
He looked back at her.
"Not anyone."
Then the motorcycles started.
One after another.
Seventy-nine engines came alive.
The sound rolled across the damaged fields.
Martha stood on the porch and watched them disappear.
She thought that was the end.
She was wrong.
The Unexpected Visitor
Three days later, Martha heard an engine.
She expected a truck.
Instead, a single motorcycle stopped at the end of her driveway.
Dean removed his helmet.
Martha stepped outside.
"What happened?"
"Nothing."
"Then why are you here?"
Dean smiled.
"I brought something."
He opened a saddlebag.
Inside was a new storm radio.
Martha frowned.
"I already have one."
"This one's stronger."
"I don't need it."
Dean placed it on the porch.
"You do."
Martha sighed.
"You're stubborn."
"Occupational hazard."
She picked up the radio.
"Thank you."
Dean nodded.
Then he looked around.
"How's the house?"
"Standing."
"Barn?"
"Not standing."
"Fences?"
"Mostly not standing."
Dean looked toward the pasture.
"We'll fix them."
Martha laughed.
"You can't keep coming back every time something breaks."
Dean's expression became serious.
"That's exactly what we're going to do."
Martha didn't understand.
Until she heard another motorcycle.
Then another.
She turned.
Three riders appeared.
Then five.
Then ten.
Martha stared.
"Dean."
He smiled.
"You remember the seventy-nine?"
"Yes."
"They remember you."
Seventy-Nine Become Three Hundred
The first thing Martha noticed was the noise.
Not the chaotic roar of a storm.
The controlled rumble of motorcycles.
She walked to the end of her driveway.