"Yes."
"What do you think?"
Jackson looked outside.
"I think I would've kept riding."
"And now?"
He smiled.
"Now I'm not sure where I'm going."
Beatrice closed her eyes.
"Good."
"Why?"
"Because maybe you finally have to figure it out."
The Call
The next morning, Jackson received a call from Frank.
"Jackson."
"What?"
"Your bike was reported stolen."
Jackson stood.
"What?"
"Someone tried to take it from the hospital parking lot."
Jackson ran downstairs.
The Road King was gone.
His heart sank.
Security footage showed the same man from the gas station.
The police were searching.
Jackson clenched his fists.
Beatrice arrived in a wheelchair.
"What happened?"
"My bike."
"Stolen?"
He nodded.
Beatrice looked at him.
"Jackson."
"What?"
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Let anger make the decision."
He looked away.
"That's what I would've done."
Beatrice smiled.
"Then you would've been a different man."
Jackson took a breath.
For six years, anger had been easier than grief.
He knew that now.
He sat down.
"I'm tired."
Beatrice reached for his hand.
"Then rest."
The Road Back
The police found the motorcycle that afternoon.
The thief had abandoned it near an old warehouse.
Nothing important was missing.
But the bike was damaged.
Jackson stood beside it.
Scratches.
Broken mirror.
Bent foot peg.
Beatrice looked at the motorcycle.
"Can it be fixed?"
Jackson smiled.
"Everything can be fixed."
"Everything?"
"No."
He looked at her.
"But most things."
She nodded.
"Thomas used to say that."
Jackson ran his fingers over the scratched tank.
Then he noticed something.
A small piece of paper had been tucked beneath the seat.
A note.
I know who you are.
Your wife helped my mother once.
You don't remember.
But she did.
So I'm returning what I took.
I'm sorry.
Jackson stared at the note.
Beatrice read it.
"Diane helped his mother?"
Jackson shook his head.
"I don't remember."
"Maybe that's the point."
"What?"
"Maybe kindness isn't supposed to be remembered by the person who gives it."
Jackson smiled.
For the first time, the thought didn't hurt.
Sarah
Jackson returned to Dusty Ridge with Beatrice.
They stood beside Thomas's old Harley.
Beatrice looked at it.
"She still won't start."
Jackson laughed.
"Not without work."
"Can you fix her?"
"Yes."
"How long?"
"Couple weeks."
Beatrice smiled.
"Do it."
Jackson looked at her.
"You sure?"
"I am."
He opened the garage door.
Inside was an old workbench.
Dust.
Tools.
Photographs.
Thomas's motorcycle.
Jackson spent the next fourteen days rebuilding the Harley.
New battery.
New tires.
Fuel system.
Carburetor.
Spark plugs.
Oil.
Filters.
Wiring.
Piece by piece.
Beatrice watched from a chair.
Sometimes she helped.
Sometimes she simply talked.
They spoke about Thomas.
Diane.
Their mistakes.
Their fears.
Their regrets.
And slowly, without either of them noticing, the garage became less like a repair shop and more like a home.
On the fourteenth morning, Jackson turned the key.
The engine coughed.
Beatrice held her breath.
Jackson adjusted the throttle.
The engine coughed again.
Then—
ROAR.
The old Harley came alive.
Beatrice covered her mouth.
Tears rolled down her cheeks.
Jackson laughed.
"Sounds terrible."
She laughed through the tears.
"She sounds beautiful."
Can You Ride This?
Three weeks later, Beatrice stood beside the restored Harley.
The paint had been polished.
The chrome shined.
The leather had been treated.
The old machine looked alive again.
Jackson handed her a helmet.
Beatrice stared at it.
"I'm scared."
"Good."
"You're enjoying this."
"A little."
She climbed onto the bike.
Her hands trembled.
Jackson stood beside her.
"You don't have to prove anything."
"I know."
"You don't have to go far."
"I know."
"You can stop."
Beatrice looked at him.
"Jackson."
"Yes?"
"I spent nine years afraid to touch this motorcycle."
She looked down at the tank.
"Thomas wanted me to ride."
Jackson nodded.
"Then ride."
She started the engine.
The Harley roared.
Beatrice smiled.
She eased the motorcycle forward.
One foot.
Then another.
She rode across the parking lot.
Turned.
Came back.
Jackson clapped.
Beatrice stopped.
She removed her helmet.
"I did it."
Jackson smiled.
"Yeah."
She looked at him.
"Can you ride this?"