"Long enough."
Frankie shook his head.
"That's not an answer."
Dustin smiled slightly.
"Long enough to know nobody notices a kid who keeps his head down."
Frankie thought about that.
Then he said:
"I noticed."
Dustin looked at him.
"Yeah."
Frankie stood.
"Come inside."
Dustin followed.
The Harley waited beneath the lights.
Frankie handed him a wrench.
Dustin stared at it.
"You sure?"
Frankie nodded.
"Bill would've wanted you to."
Dustin tightened his grip.
For the first time in months, perhaps years, he looked like a teenager instead of someone trying to disappear.
They worked together.
Frankie taught Dustin about Bill.
Dustin taught Frankie what he had learned from his father.
Pete listened.
Jerry watched.
By afternoon, the ignition was ready.
They turned the key.
Nothing.
Pete kicked the starter.
Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
Ray checked the electrical system.
"Everything's live."
Jerry looked at Dustin.
"Your move."
Dustin placed one hand on the tank.
He closed his eyes.
Then he adjusted the timing manually.
"Try it."
Pete kicked again.
The engine coughed.
Everyone froze.
Dustin smiled.
"Again."
Pete kicked.
The Harley coughed a second time.
Then died.
Frankie laughed.
Not because it had failed.
Because it had spoken.
One More Time
They tried seventeen times.
On the eighteenth, the engine fired.
Only for two seconds.
But it fired.
The sound filled the garage.
A deep, uneven thunder.
Frankie stepped backward.
His eyes closed.
For one instant, he was twenty-four again.
He could see Bill.
Could hear him laughing.
Could smell gasoline and rain.
Then the engine died.
Nobody moved.
Pete broke the silence.
"Well."
Jerry smiled.
"She's alive."
Dustin shook his head.
"Not yet."
Pete looked at him.
"What?"
"The timing still isn't right."
Pete stared.
"You heard that for two seconds."
"I heard what was wrong."
Dustin pointed toward the rear cylinder.
"She's firing too late now."
Jerry nodded slowly.
"He's right."
They adjusted it again.
Then again.
Each attempt brought the Harley closer.
By midnight, the engine ran for twenty seconds.
Then thirty.
Then nearly a minute.
On the final attempt, it ran for three minutes.
The sound was rough.
Beautiful.
Alive.
Frankie stood beside it with tears in his eyes.
Jerry shut the engine down.
The silence afterward was enormous.
Frankie placed his hand on the tank.
"Welcome back."
Dustin looked at him.
"Saturday?"
Frankie smiled.
"Saturday."
The Memorial Ride
Saturday morning arrived beneath a pale California sky.
Motorcycles filled the parking lot outside Iron & Oil.
Dozens of them.
Harleys.
Indian motorcycles.
Old Japanese bikes.
Custom builds.
Machines polished until chrome reflected the sunlight.
Riders came from across Oakland, San Francisco, Berkeley, and beyond.
They wore leather vests with names stitched across the backs.
Some names belonged to living riders.
Others belonged to men and women who had been gone for decades.
The memorial ride wasn't about speed.
It wasn't about showing off.
It was about remembering.
Frankie rolled the old Harley into the center of the gathering.
The crowd fell silent.
Many people knew the motorcycle.
Some had ridden beside Bill.
Others had only heard stories.
Dustin stood near the garage entrance.
He wore clean jeans and a black shirt.
Jerry had bought him a pair of riding boots.
Pete had given him an old leather vest.
It was too large.
Dustin didn't care.
Frankie walked over.
"You riding with us?"
Dustin shook his head.
"I don't have a motorcycle."
Frankie handed him a helmet.
"You do now."
Dustin stared.
Behind Frankie stood a small black motorcycle.
Old.
Restored.
Beautiful.
Dustin's mouth opened.
"You can't."
"I can."
"But—"
"Your father's?"
Dustin nodded.
Frankie smiled.
"I bought it from a man who owed Jerry money."
Dustin stared.
"It was sitting in storage."
"How much?"
"Doesn't matter."
Dustin shook his head.
"I can't take this."
Frankie put the helmet into his hands.
"Bill once told me something."
"What?"
"Nobody rides alone unless they choose to."
Dustin looked at the motorcycle.
Then at Frankie.
He smiled.
"Okay."
The Road
The motorcycles rolled out at ten.
One by one.
Then two by two.
Then the entire procession.
Engines echoed through Oakland streets.
The old Harley led.
Frankie rode slowly.
Dustin followed directly behind him.
For the first few miles, nobody spoke.
There was no need.
The city gradually disappeared behind them.
They moved toward the coast.
Toward the roads where Frankie and Bill had spent their youth.
At a red light, Dustin pulled alongside Frankie.
"How fast did Bill ride?"
Frankie smiled.
"Too fast."
Dustin laughed.
"How fast?"
"Fast enough to make me regret being his friend."
The light changed.
They continued.
Hours later, they reached the overlook where Bill's final memorial had been held thirty-one years earlier.
Everyone parked.
Helmets came off.
Engines died.
Silence returned.
Frankie walked toward the railing.
He held the small brass key in his hand.
Dustin followed.
"What happened that night?"
Frankie stared at the ocean.
"Fog."
He swallowed.
"Bill was supposed to wait for me."
"But he didn't."
"No."