Grease remained beneath his fingernails.
His right hand touched the adjustable wrench in his back pocket.
Then he heard Hank's voice.
“Please, son.”
Brandon took a breath.
“Keep walking.”
Something inside him broke.
Not from fear.
From anger.
Not the kind of anger that made him reckless.
The kind that made a decision.
Brandon looked toward a dumpster.
A rusted bicycle chain lay in the dirt.
He grabbed it.
“Hey!”
One of the men noticed.
Brandon threw his water bottle.
It struck Trent in the back of the head.
Trent turned.
“What the—”
Brandon was already moving.
He drove his shoulder into Cody.
Cody stumbled backward.
Brett swung the broken chair.
Brandon raised his forearm.
The chair struck him.
Pain exploded through his arm.
He gritted his teeth.
He wrapped the bicycle chain around Jesse's legs.
Jesse fell.
Everything happened at once.
Hank rose.
The old man moved faster than Brandon expected.
He swept one attacker off his feet.
The young man crashed onto the pavement.
Trent charged.
The wrench swung.
Brandon ducked.
The metal scraped across his shoulder.
He grabbed Trent's wrist.
Twisted.
The wrench fell.
For a second, everything became silent.
Hank stood beside Brandon.
The six men stared at them.
Hank looked at Trent.
“Boys.”
His voice was quiet.
“Walk away.”
Nobody moved.
Hank stepped forward.
“While you still can.”
Trent's confidence disappeared.
He grabbed his wrist.
Then he ran.
The others followed.
Their Chevrolet screamed out of the parking lot.
Silence returned.
Brandon sat on the curb.
His body began shaking.
The adrenaline was disappearing.
His forearm was already turning purple.
Hank crouched beside him.
“You all right?”
Brandon nodded.
“I think so.”
Hank removed a blue bandana from his vest.
He wrapped it around Brandon's arm.
“You're hurt.”
“I'll be fine.”
Hank studied him.
“What is your name?”
“Brandon.”
“Why did you do that?”
Brandon looked at him.
“Nobody else was going to.”
Hank stared at him for several seconds.
Then he noticed the adjustable wrench in Brandon's pocket.
The library card on the pavement.
The grease under his fingernails.
The eighteen-year-old mechanic who had stepped into a fight he could have avoided.
Hank reached into his vest.
He pulled out a thick roll of money.
“Take it.”
Brandon shook his head.
“No, sir.”
“You took a wrench across the shoulder for me.”
“I didn't do it for money.”
Hank offered it again.
“For your mother.”
Brandon's expression changed.
“My mother died when I was nine.”
Hank lowered the money.
“Your father?”
“Not around.”
“Who do you live with?”
“My grandmother.”
Hank nodded.
He didn't ask anything else.
Brandon stood.
Then he saw the motorcycle.
He stared at the fuel tank.
The pinstriping.
The brass badge.
His eyes widened.
Hank watched him recognize it.
“You've seen this before.”
Brandon swallowed.
“In a book.”
“What book?”
“Modern Custom Builders.”
Hank smiled.
“Good book.”
“You're Henry Callaway.”
Hank's smile disappeared.
“You know my name.”
“I've read about your shop.”
Hank looked at him carefully.
Then he said four words.
“We do not forget.”
He put on his helmet.
The Panhead roared to life.
Brandon watched him disappear down Fifth Street.
He had no idea that Hank had already decided to find him again.
The Forty-Three Motorcycles
That evening, Brandon arrived home at 6:40.
Maylene looked at him.
Then at his arm.
Then at his torn jeans.
“What happened?”
“I caught my arm on a fence.”
Maylene stared.
“You're a terrible liar.”
Brandon sat.
She carefully removed the bandana.
Her eyes lingered on the bruising.
She cleaned the scrape.
Then she wrapped his arm.
“What is this?”
Brandon looked at the blue cloth.
“Someone helped me.”
“Who?”
“A man.”
“What kind of man?”
Brandon hesitated.
“A biker.”
Maylene raised an eyebrow.
“Did he help you?”
“Yes.”
“Then you should thank him.”
Brandon nodded.
“I did.”
She folded the bandana and placed it on the table.