He disappeared under the station wagon's hood.
Twenty minutes later, he returned soaked.
His clothes were dripping.
He wiped his hands on his jeans.
Casey stared at him.
“Why'd you stop?”
Frank looked at her.
“Because they needed somebody.”
“But you don't know them.”
“I don't have to.”
She frowned.
He started the truck.
After a while, she asked:
“What if you're the one who needs help someday?”
Frank smiled.
“That's exactly why I stop.”
She didn't understand.
Not completely.
He continued.
“You know what's worse than being stuck on the side of the road?”
Casey shook her head.
“Being stuck there and watching forty cars pass you like you're invisible.”
He looked at her.
“Every driver has a reason not to stop.”
Casey waited.
“None of those reasons matter to the person standing in the rain.”
She stared through the windshield.
“So you stop even when you have a reason not to?”
Frank nodded.
“I stop because if it were you out there, I'd want forty people to have a reason not to stop…”
He paused.
“…and one person to stop anyway.”
Three weeks later, Frank died in his sleep from a heart attack.
Casey never forgot those words.
She simply never imagined they would one day ask something of her.
The Shop
Garrison Auto opened at seven.
Casey arrived at 6:42.
Marcus Garrison was already there.
He was standing over a Honda Civic with the hood raised.
“You're early.”
“Bus didn't come.”
Marcus nodded.
He didn't ask questions.
That was Marcus.
He believed people usually had reasons for being late.
He also believed that people who arrived early didn't need praise.
Casey changed into her coveralls.
She went straight to the back.
An old motorcycle waited there.
A 1986 BMW.
It had been sitting for months.
Everyone else had refused to touch it.
Casey loved it.
Old machines didn't lie.
If something was broken, they told you.
If something was worn out, they showed you.
People were harder.
During lunch, she pulled a library book from her backpack.
Custom Builders of the American Road: A Visual History.
She turned to a photograph she had studied dozens of times.
A red 1959 Panhead.
The caption read:
Walter Doyle, Founder, Doyle Custom Cycles.
Marcus passed behind her.
“You still reading that thing?”
“It's good.”
“You ever gonna build one?”
“One day.”
Marcus laughed.
“Yeah.”
He took a sip of coffee.
“You will.”
Casey looked at the photograph again.
She didn't know that three days later she would meet the man in it.
She didn't know Walter Doyle was still alive.
She didn't know his shop still existed.
And she certainly didn't know that the old man in the photograph would one day become the person who changed everything she thought she knew about her own future.
The Bill
Tuesday began normally.
Until eleven.
The phone rang.
Casey answered.
“Hello?”
“This is Riverside General Hospital billing.”
Her stomach tightened.
“Yes?”
“We're calling regarding Eleanor Marlo's outstanding account.”
Casey closed her eyes.
“I know.”
“The balance is currently four thousand two hundred seventeen dollars.”
“I can make a payment.”
“How much?”
“Two hundred.”
There was a pause.
“The account is sixty days past due.”
“I understand.”
“If the account isn't placed on an approved payment plan by the end of the month, it may be referred to collections.”
Casey gripped the phone.
“I need more time.”
“I'm sorry.”
“She's sick.”
“I understand.”
“No, you don't.”
Silence.
Casey immediately regretted saying it.
The woman on the phone wasn't responsible for the system.
She was just reading it.
“I'll call back,” Casey whispered.
She hung up.
For several minutes, she sat alone in the shop's small office.
Four thousand two hundred seventeen dollars.
It might as well have been four million.
Her paycheck wasn't enough.
Her grandmother's Social Security wasn't enough.
There was no savings.
No insurance large enough to cover everything.
Casey looked at her hands.
Grease was embedded beneath her fingernails.
She thought of her grandfather.
One person has to stop anyway.
She shook her head.
“Not today, Grandpa.”
Then she returned to work.
She didn't know that two miles away, Walter Doyle was preparing to make his final stop before heading home.
Iron Walt
Walter Doyle had been called many things.
Mechanic.
Builder.
Biker.
Troublemaker.
Legend.
Idiot.
Hero.
He didn't care about any of them.
He preferred mechanic.
It was honest.
He had started Doyle Custom Cycles when he was twenty-nine.
Back then, the shop was little more than a converted barn.
He built motorcycles for people who didn't want ordinary machines.
Over the years, he built hundreds.
Some were worth tens of thousands.
Some were worth less than the parts inside them.
But every motorcycle had a story.