He backed away.
Then ran.
The others followed.
A Chevy engine roared.
Tires screamed.
The car disappeared onto the highway.
The entire confrontation had lasted eight seconds.
Casey sat down hard on the curb.
Her left forearm was already turning purple.
The old man crouched beside her.
His knees cracked.
He looked at her hands.
Grease beneath her nails.
A small adjustable wrench sticking from her back pocket.
Then he looked at her face.
“What’s your name?”
“Casey.”
“Why'd you do that, Casey?”
She breathed heavily.
“Because nobody else was going to.”
The old man studied her.
Then he pulled a blue bandana from inside his leather vest.
He wrapped it around her injured arm.
“You should've kept walking.”
“Yeah.”
“You regret it?”
Casey looked toward the highway.
“No.”
The old man smiled.
“Good.”
She looked at the motorcycle.
“Is that yours?”
He glanced over his shoulder.
“Yeah.”
“It's beautiful.”
“Old.”
“Old things can still be beautiful.”
The old man laughed softly.
“You a mechanic?”
Casey nodded.
“Sometimes.”
“Sometimes?”
“That's what I tell people when they ask.”
He smiled again.
Then he stood.
“My name is Walter Doyle.”
Casey froze.
She had heard that name.
Every mechanic in town had.
Every motorcycle enthusiast had.
Walter Doyle.
Founder of Doyle Custom Cycles.
Known to some as Iron Walt.
Casey looked at the old biker again.
“You're that Walter Doyle?”
Walter raised an eyebrow.
“That depends. Is the other one wanted by the law?”
Casey laughed despite herself.
It hurt her arm.
Walter noticed.
“Come on. Let's get that checked.”
“I can't afford a hospital.”
Walter looked at her.
“Who said anything about a hospital?”
Casey didn't know it yet.
But that evening was about to change her life.
Not because she had fought six men.
Not because Walter Doyle was famous.
Not even because thirty motorcycles would arrive before the night was over.
Her life changed because she refused to walk away.
The Marlo House
Three days earlier, Casey had been sitting at her grandmother's kitchen table at five in the morning.
Eleanor Marlo was seventy-two.
She had diabetes.
She kept her medical information in a notebook with a red elastic band around it.
Every morning, she tested her blood sugar.
Every morning, she wrote the number down.
That morning, the number was too high.
Eleanor stared at the page.
Then closed the notebook.
Casey watched from the stove.
“You okay?”
“I'm fine.”
“You always say that.”
“And you always ask.”
Casey smiled.
Eleanor didn't.
“Baby.”
Casey turned.
“What?”
“You're worrying too much.”
“I'm not.”
“You are.”
Casey looked down at the coffee.
Her grandmother knew her too well.
The hospital bill sat on the counter.
Four thousand two hundred seventeen dollars.
Casey had already paid what she could.
She had skipped lunches.
Worked overtime.
Taken extra shifts.
She had even sold an old guitar she had owned since high school.
It still wasn't enough.
That morning, Casey had forty-one dollars and some change.
She quietly removed twenty dollars from her wallet and placed it inside the rent jar.
Eleanor saw.
“Casey.”
She froze.
“Bring that back.”
“Grandma—”
“Bring it back.”
Casey slowly took the money.
Eleanor looked tired.
Not angry.
Sad.
“Our family doesn't take from our own children to pay our debts.”
“It's not a debt.”
“It is.”
“It's your medical bill.”
“Exactly.”
Casey sighed.
“Then let me help.”
Eleanor reached across the counter.
She placed a hand against Casey's cheek.
“I don't need you to save me.”
Casey looked at her.
“I need you to become a woman I'm proud of when I'm gone.”
The words struck harder than Eleanor intended.
“Don't say that.”
“I'm old.”
“You're seventy-two.”
“Exactly.”
“That isn't old.”
Eleanor smiled.
“It is when you're talking to somebody who's twenty-six.”
Casey laughed.
Then Eleanor became serious again.
“You have your own life.”
“I know.”
“Then live it.”
Casey nodded.
She put the twenty back into her wallet.
She kissed her grandmother's forehead.
“I love you.”
“I know.”
Casey left.
She walked eighteen blocks to Garrison Auto.
Her bicycle had broken two weeks earlier.
She hadn't been able to afford the replacement chain.
Marcus Garrison was already at the shop.
“You're early.”
“Bus didn't come.”
Marcus nodded.
“Get changed.”
That was his way of saying hello.
Casey put on her coveralls.