Hank said nothing.
“Served six years. Got out eight weeks ago.”
Roy paused.
“His mother died while he was inside.”
That got Hank's attention.
“His brother lives in Nevada and won't return his calls. He's staying at the halfway house on Inyokern Road.”
Roy leaned forward.
“He has no work. No family. No direction.”
Hank stared into his coffee.
“I want you to talk to him.”
“No.”
“Just once.”
“I’m retired.”
Roy shook his head.
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I mean it.”
Roy's voice softened.
“That isn't retirement, Hank.”
Hank looked at him.
“That’s hiding.”
The words landed harder than Roy intended.
Or perhaps exactly as hard as he intended.
Hank stood.
“Send him to the VA.”
“They're backed up.”
“A chaplain.”
“He won't go.”
“Then someone else.”
Roy sighed.
“He might go if you ask him.”
Hank paid for his coffee.
“I’m the wrong man for this.”
He walked outside.
But as he started his motorcycle, Roy's words stayed with him.
That’s hiding.
The Gas Station
At 8:47 that morning, Hank stopped at a Shell station.
He was halfway through filling the tank when he heard shouting.
“Lady, we've been waiting ten minutes!”
Hank turned.
Three young men stood beside a white BMW.
Behind them was an old Subaru with its hood open.
Steam poured from the engine.
A woman stood beside the car.
She was in her early sixties, with short silver hair and a denim jacket.
One of the young men had his hand on her shoulder.
Not gently.
“Move the car.”
“My radiator overheated,” she said. “I just need a few minutes.”
“You've already had a few minutes.”
Hank put down the fuel nozzle.
He walked toward them.
Slowly.
“Excuse me.”
The young man turned.
He looked Hank up and down.
Old leather jacket.
White beard.
Biker boots.
A man who looked old enough to be his grandfather.
The young man laughed.
“What do you want?”
Hank looked at the hand on the woman's shoulder.
“Son, take your hand off the lady.”
“Or what, old man?”
Hank didn't move.
“There is no ‘or.’”
The young man's smile faded slightly.
“There is only ‘take your hand off the lady.’”
Something in Hank's voice changed the atmosphere.
It wasn't anger.
It wasn't a threat.
It was certainty.
The young man slowly removed his hand.
Hank looked at him.
“Her radiator overheated.”
“So?”
“So you will wait.”
The young man stared at him.
Then he looked at his friends.
Finally, he walked back toward the BMW.
Hank turned to the woman.
“Are you all right?”
She nodded.
“My name is Dela Flynn.”
“Hank Briggs.”
He checked her Subaru.
A cracked radiator hose.
Hank helped her fill the coolant reservoir and gave her the name of a mechanic.