“I'll replace everything.”
“You can't replace everything.”
Eli stopped.
The old man pointed toward the highway.
“Those eggs are replaceable.”
Then he pointed toward his own chest.
“Being treated like you don't matter isn't.”
Eli swallowed.
For the first time that afternoon, he looked directly at the man.
There was something unusual about him.
Not weakness.
Not fear.
Something else.
A calmness that didn't belong on a roadside after being humiliated by seven motorcycles.
Eli crouched down and began gathering the groceries.
The old man watched him.
“What is your name?”
“Eli.”
“Eli what?”
“Foster.”
The old man nodded.
“I'm Samuel Carter.”
Eli didn't know it yet.
But that name would soon become the most important name he had ever heard.
The Gas Station
Wade Mercer was laughing when Eli arrived at the gas station.
The other riders stood around their motorcycles, smoking cigarettes and drinking canned energy drinks.
Wade looked up.
“Well, look who finally caught up.”
Eli parked.
Nobody spoke.
Wade's smile disappeared.
“Where were you?”
Eli removed his gloves.
“Helping someone.”
A few riders exchanged looks.
Wade walked closer.
“Helping who?”
“An old man.”
Wade laughed.
“The guy we splashed?”
Eli said nothing.
Wade's smile returned.
“You actually stopped?”
“Yes.”
A rider named Travis snorted.
“Unbelievable.”
Wade stepped closer until he was inches from Eli.
“You know what prospects are supposed to do?”
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
“Follow the group.”
“And?”
“Don't embarrass the club.”
“Exactly.”
Wade tapped Eli's vest.
“You made us look stupid.”
Eli looked at him.
“No.”
The gas station seemed to become quieter.
Wade's eyebrows lifted.
“What did you say?”
“I said I don't think helping somebody made us look stupid.”
Travis laughed.
“Kid's growing a spine.”
Wade ignored him.
“You've been with us eleven months, Eli. Eleven. You think that means you know something?”
“No.”
“Then don't lecture me.”
Eli nodded.
“I won't.”
Wade stepped back.
“Good.”
Then he smiled.
“Because if you want that patch, you better remember where you stand.”
Eli looked down at his vest.
The incomplete colors suddenly felt heavier than they had that morning.
Wade turned away.
“Tonight, you're cleaning the clubhouse.”
“Okay.”
“And the bathroom.”
“Okay.”
“Alone.”
Eli nodded.
Wade walked toward his motorcycle.
Then he stopped.
“Oh, and Eli?”
“Yes?”
“Next time you see somebody walking on the shoulder, don't stop.”
The riders laughed.
Eli didn't.
He started his motorcycle.
But as the engine came alive, he couldn't stop thinking about Samuel Carter.
And the way the old man's hands had trembled.
Not from fear.
From age.
Samuel Carter
Samuel Carter lived alone in a small brick house outside Black River.
The house was old but immaculate.
Every tool had a place.
Every photograph was framed.
Every book was dust-free.
Samuel entered through the back door carrying the replacement groceries Eli had bought.
He placed them on the kitchen table.
Then he removed his wet coat.
Underneath it, he wore a faded blue sweater.
Samuel stared at himself in the dark kitchen window.
He looked tired.
Older than he had that morning.
On the wall behind him hung several photographs.
One showed Samuel as a young man wearing a military uniform.
Another showed him standing beside a helicopter.
Another showed him with a group of soldiers.
And another showed a young woman with dark hair.
His daughter.
Rachel.
Samuel reached for the photograph.
His thumb brushed the glass.
Rachel had died twelve years earlier.
A drunk driver had crossed the centerline on a rainy Arkansas road.
Samuel had been the one to identify her.
Since then, November rain had never been just rain.