"Yes."

"On a motorcycle that hasn't run in nine years?"

"Yes."

"With dry-rotted tires?"

She looked at the tires.

"I hadn't noticed."

"Dead battery."

"I have jumper cables."

"Varnished fuel."

"I have gasoline."

"That's not how that works."

She frowned.

"Then tell me how it works."

Jackson couldn't help smiling.

She was seventy years old, shaking with Parkinson's, standing beside a motorcycle that had been abandoned for almost a decade, and somehow she still sounded like she was ready to argue with the entire desert.

He liked her.

That worried him.

"Even if I got this running," he said, "I wouldn't let you ride it forty-five minutes."

"Why?"

"Because it could fail at any point."

"I have to get there."

"I understand."

"No," she said quietly. "You don't."

Jackson stood.

"You're right."

Her eyes met his.

"I don't know what it's like to have your body stop cooperating while the world keeps demanding things from you."

Beatrice looked down.

"I used to ride this bike with my husband."

Jackson said nothing.

"He taught me."

"When?"

"Everywhere."

She smiled faintly.

"We rode to California. Utah. Arizona. Once all the way to Oregon."

"Sounds like he knew what he was doing."

"He did."

She touched the tank.

"His name was Thomas."

Jackson looked at the motorcycle.

"Thomas took good care of it."

"He loved it."

"And you?"

"I loved him."

There was a long silence.

Then Beatrice's hand trembled harder.

She clenched it into a fist.

Jackson noticed.

She noticed him noticing.

"I hate this," she whispered.

"What?"

"My hands."

She looked down.

"They used to build things. Bake bread. Change spark plugs. Hold my husband's hand."

She swallowed.

"Now sometimes they won't even button my shirt."

Jackson didn't know what to say.

So he said the only thing he could.

"Your hands aren't useless."

She looked at him.

"Maybe not."

He glanced at the prescription bottle.

"How long can you go without the medication?"

"Not long."

"How long?"

"By tonight, I'll be in trouble."

Jackson looked toward the western sky.

The sun was dropping.

He thought about Diane.

He remembered her hospital room.

Her weak voice.

Promise me you'll help people when you can.

He had promised.

Then he had spent six years avoiding exactly that responsibility.

Jackson took a slow breath.

"My bike is out front."

Beatrice looked at him.

"Yes."

"It's running."

"Yes."

"I can get you to Boulder City."

She stared.

"On your motorcycle?"

"That's usually how it works."

"You don't even know me."

"No."

"You could be dangerous."

"Could be."

"You could be a murderer."

"Would make this conversation awkward."

She almost smiled.

Jackson continued.

"But you need help."

Beatrice looked toward the old Harley.

Then back at him.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why would you help me?"

Jackson looked away.

He thought of Diane.

Of the promise.

Of the years he'd wasted.

"Because someone I loved would want me to."

Beatrice studied him for a long time.

Finally, she nodded.

"Wait here."

She walked toward the diner.

After three steps, she stopped.

Turned around.

"Jackson?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Can you ride?"

He raised an eyebrow.

"Can I ride?"

"I mean really ride."

She looked toward the highway.

"Fast enough to get me there before dark?"

Jackson smiled.

"I can ride."

Beatrice nodded.

"Good."

Then she disappeared inside.

Jackson remained beside the dead Harley.

He placed one hand on its dusty tank.

And for reasons he couldn't explain, he whispered:

"Let's see what your old man left behind."

The Ride to Boulder City

Beatrice emerged five minutes later carrying a small canvas bag.

She had changed shoes.

She had a bottle of water.

And she was wearing an old leather jacket that looked like it had belonged to someone much larger.

Jackson looked at it.

"Thomas?"

She nodded.

"Still smells like him."

Jackson didn't comment.

She walked toward his motorcycle.

Then stopped.

"You weren't joking?"

"About what?"

"Taking me."

"No."

She stared at the Road King.

"That's a big motorcycle."

"It's comfortable."

"For someone like me?"

"Especially someone like you."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I know how to carry a passenger."

Beatrice looked unconvinced.

Jackson held out a helmet.

"Put this on."

She did.

He adjusted the strap.

"Comfortable?"

"Feels strange."

"First time?"

"First time on a motorcycle with someone who has a beard like yours."

Jackson laughed.

She smiled.

It was the first real smile he'd seen from her.

Then she climbed onto the motorcycle.

Her hands immediately gripped the sides of the seat.

"Where do I hold?"

"Me."

She froze.

"Your waist?"

"Yes."

She wrapped her arms around him.

Her hands trembled.

Jackson started the engine.

The motorcycle came alive.

Beatrice's body stiffened.

"You all right?"

"I think so."

"Don't fight the movement."

"What?"

"Lean with me."

The bike rolled forward.

Beatrice gasped.

Jackson smiled.

They left Dusty Ridge behind.

The desert opened around them.

The road stretched into the sunset.

For the first ten miles, neither spoke.

Then Beatrice shouted:

"You're going too fast!"

Jackson slowed.

"Sorry!"

"How fast were you going?"

"Sixty."

"That is too fast."

"Speed limit is seventy."

"I don't care!"

Jackson laughed.

After another mile, she tapped his shoulder.

He looked back.

She was smiling.

They accelerated again.

By the time they reached Highway 95, Beatrice had relaxed.

Her grip loosened.

Her breathing slowed.

She looked around.

For the first time in years, she felt something she had almost forgotten.

Freedom.

The wind.

The vibration.

The smell of desert sage.

The endless highway.

It reminded her of Thomas.

They had ridden together every summer.

She remembered him shouting through the wind.

"You can't be afraid of the road, Bea!"

She had always shouted back:

"I'm not afraid of the road! I'm afraid of you!"

Thomas would laugh.

She closed her eyes.

For a moment, she could almost hear him.

Jackson noticed her smile in the reflection of the mirror.

"You okay?"

"Yes."

"Thinking about him?"

"Yes."

"He was a good rider?"

"The best."

Jackson nodded.

After another twenty minutes, Beatrice tapped him again.

"What?"

"Why did you stop in Dusty Ridge?"

"Fuel."

"That's all?"

"That's all."

She didn't believe him.

"You're running from something."

Jackson's hands tightened slightly around the grips.