Casey carried those words with her.
They became more than instructions about motorcycles.
They became instructions about people.
The Trial
Five months later, Brody Kane went to trial.
Casey testified.
Eleven minutes.
She told the truth.
She didn't exaggerate.
She didn't ask the jury to hate him.
She simply described what happened.
Brody never looked at her.
At sentencing, the judge asked him if he had anything to say.
Brody stood with his hands cuffed.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then his voice came quietly.
“I used to think being scared of me meant people respected me.”
He swallowed.
“I had eight months in county to think about that diner kid. The old man. Her.”
He looked at the floor.
“I'm not asking for less time.”
Then he finally raised his eyes.
“I just wanted somebody to know I understand what I did now.”
The judge sentenced him to four years.
Mandatory anger management.
Restitution.
And a permanent record of the night when six men believed they had chosen an easy victim.
They had been wrong.
A Scale Sitting Level
After the sentencing, Casey walked into the courthouse parking lot.
She expected to feel victorious.
Instead, she felt strangely empty.
Walter caught up with her.
“You all right?”
“I thought I'd feel something bigger.”
Walter nodded.
“Justice doesn't usually feel the way people expect.”
Casey looked at him.
“What does it feel like?”
He thought for a moment.
“Usually?”
He smiled faintly.
“It just feels like the scale finally sitting level again.”
He shook her hand.
Then, as if the conversation had never happened, he added:
“Keep an eye on the timing chain in that Shovelhead.”
Casey laughed.
“That's all you have to say?”
Walter climbed onto his motorcycle.
“For now.”
The engine roared.
He rode away.
Casey watched until the motorcycle disappeared around the corner.
She finally understood something.
Walter hadn't saved her.
He had opened a door.
She had to walk through it herself.
Marlo and Doyle
Six months after the gas station incident, Casey opened a small storefront two doors down from Garrison Auto.
The sign above the entrance was hand-painted.
MARLO AND DOYLE CUSTOM RESTORATION
Eleanor sat behind the counter most afternoons.
Her medical bills were paid.
Her blood sugar notebook was still on the kitchen counter.
The twenty-dollar bill had long since become a private joke between grandmother and granddaughter.
On the back wall of the shop hung a folded blue bandana.
It was framed in simple wood.
Along the edge, Casey had stitched four words:
WE DON'T FORGET.
Walter hated the idea of the bandana being framed.
“Should be used,” he complained.
Casey smiled.
“It is.”
“How?”
“Every day I see it.”
Walter shook his head.
“Still counts.”
That spring, Casey took on her first apprentice.
His name was Tyler.
He had been caught twice stealing gas from cars at Garrison Auto.
Casey didn't lecture him.
She handed him a wrench.
“Know what this is?”
“A wrench?”
“It's a chance.”
He looked confused.
Casey pointed toward the garage.
“There are two ways to need help.”
Tyler waited.
“You can ask for it.”
She looked him directly in the eyes.
“Or you can steal from someone because you're too ashamed to ask.”
He lowered his head.
“I messed up.”
“I know.”
“Are you going to fire me?”
“No.”
She handed him a pair of gloves.