William Henderson had never believed in quiet motorcycles.

At least, that's what Frankie remembered.

Bill had been twenty-two when he bought the Harley.

Back then, the bike wasn't old.

It was almost new.

Black paint.

Bright chrome.

A powerful engine that shook the ground beneath their boots.

Frankie had been twenty-three.

They had met at a gas station outside Fresno.

Frankie was working the late shift.

Bill rode in just before midnight.

He parked beside the pumps, removed his helmet, and walked inside.

Frankie remembered the first thing Bill said.

"Coffee."

Frankie poured it.

Bill drank half the cup before looking through the window.

"Nice bike."

Frankie laughed.

"That's yours."

Bill looked confused.

"No."

"The black one."

"Yeah."

"You said nice bike."

"I was being polite."

Frankie laughed harder.

That was the beginning.

Within a month they were riding together.

Within six months they were inseparable.

They learned the highways of California the way sailors learned the ocean.

They rode through heat.

Rain.

Fog.

Desert wind.

They slept beside campfires and woke beneath skies filled with stars.

They worked construction jobs during the week and disappeared on their motorcycles whenever Friday afternoon arrived.

Bill named his Harley "Mercy."

Frankie thought the name was ridiculous.

Bill didn't care.

"Everything that carries you home deserves a name."

Frankie had remembered that sentence for thirty years.

There were stories attached to the motorcycle.

Hundreds of them.

Some funny.

Some stupid.

Some painful.

There was the night Bill rode through a thunderstorm outside Bakersfield because Frankie had broken down.

There was the time they got lost in Nevada and spent six hours following a road that didn't exist on their map.

There was the summer they rode all the way north to Oregon with barely enough money for gasoline.

There was the winter they worked twelve-hour shifts in a machine shop and spent their paychecks repairing the motorcycles instead of buying furniture.

There was the night Frankie proposed to his future wife.

He hadn't planned it.

They were sitting beside a campfire near Big Sur.

Bill looked at him and said, "You know, you're getting old."

Frankie laughed.

"I'm twenty-seven."

"Exactly."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"You need someone who tells you when you're being stupid."

Frankie smiled.

"I already have you."

Bill shook his head.

"That's the problem."

They laughed until midnight.

Those memories became the foundation of Frankie's life.

But there was another story.

One he rarely told.

The night everything changed.

The night Bill got sick.

At first, he blamed exhaustion.

Then he blamed age.

Then he blamed bad food.

Eventually, doctors gave the sickness a name.

Cancer.

Frankie remembered sitting beside him in the hospital.

Bill looked smaller than he had ever looked.

The man who had once seemed capable of fighting the entire world was lying beneath a thin blanket.

The Harley was parked in Frankie's garage.

Bill knew it.

"You still riding Mercy?"

Frankie nodded.

"Of course."

Bill smiled.

"Good."

"You want me to bring her here?"

Bill shook his head.

"No."

"Why?"

"Because if I see her, I'll want to leave."

Frankie swallowed.

"You could."

Bill laughed weakly.

"Frank, I'm not riding anywhere."

The room became quiet.

After a moment, Bill said, "You remember our first ride?"

"Yeah."

"That was the best day of my life."

"You had plenty better."

"No."

Bill closed his eyes.

"None better."

Frankie didn't know what to say.

Bill opened his eyes again.

"Promise me something."

"Anything."

"Don't let people turn her into something she isn't."

Frankie frowned.

"What does that mean?"

"No fuel injection. No computer. No giant television screen."

Frankie smiled.

"Deal."

"And ride her."

"I will."

"Not just once."

"Every year."

Bill stared at him.

"Until you can't."

Frankie looked away.

"Don't say that."

Bill smiled.

"That's how it works."

Three weeks later, Bill was gone.

Frankie kept the promise.

For thirty-one years, he rode Mercy on the anniversary of Bill's death.

Sometimes alone.

Sometimes with dozens of riders.

He never missed a year.

Until now.

The motorcycle had begun having trouble six months earlier.

At first it was small.

A hesitation.

A strange vibration.

Then a knock.

Then the engine occasionally stalled.

Frankie ignored it longer than he should have.

When Mercy finally refused to start completely, he called Jerry.

Now, twenty-three days later, Frankie sat alone in his house looking at an old photograph.

Two young men.

Two motorcycles.

Two impossible smiles.

Bill was standing beside Mercy.

Frankie stood beside his own bike.

On the back of the photograph was a handwritten sentence.

Don't let her die with me.

Frankie stared at it.

His phone rang.

It was Jerry.

"Hey."

"Frankie."

The tone made Frankie sit up.

"What happened?"

"Nothing yet."

"That sounds like something."

Jerry hesitated.

"I want you to come down to the garage."

"Why?"

"Because I found something."

Frankie stood.

"What?"

"I don't want to explain it over the phone."

Twenty minutes later, Frankie walked into Iron & Oil.

Jerry was waiting beside Mercy.

Pete stood nearby.

Ray had a toolbox open.

Frankie looked at the motorcycle.

"What did you find?"

Jerry pointed toward the engine.

"Before we tear the cases apart, I went through every service mark."

Frankie frowned.

"Service marks?"

"Old mechanics leave evidence."

Pete nodded.

"Not official records. Little things."

Jerry continued.

"Scratch marks. Punch marks. Paint dots. Tool impressions."

Frankie stepped closer.

Jerry pointed to a small mark near the lower engine case.

"See that?"

Frankie squinted.

"What am I looking at?"

"Three tiny lines."

Frankie shook his head.

"Never noticed them."

"Neither did I."

Pete spoke.

"They aren't factory."

Jerry nodded.

"Exactly."

Frankie touched the mark.

"What does it mean?"

Jerry looked at him.

"I don't know yet."

Ray walked over holding a small flashlight.

"But there's another one."

He pointed beneath the frame.

Another mark.

Three lines.

Then another near the transmission.

Three lines again.

Frankie stared at them.

His face changed.

"Bill."

Jerry looked at him.

"What?"

Frankie stepped backward.

"Bill used to do that."

Pete frowned.

"Do what?"

"Mark things."

"Why?"

Frankie shook his head.

"I don't know."

Jerry studied him.

"You never saw these before?"

"No."

Frankie looked toward the motorcycle.

Then he whispered:

"Maybe I never knew Mercy as well as I thought."

Jerry picked up his flashlight.

"Then maybe it's time we learned."

The Marks

The three lines appeared everywhere.

Once Jerry knew what to look for, he began finding them.

Three scratches beneath the seat.

Three tiny punch marks on a bracket.

Three lines inside the battery compartment.

Three cuts on the frame.

None were random.

They were deliberate.

Old.

And consistent.

Jerry spread photographs across the workbench.

Pete leaned over them.

"That's not factory work."

"No."

"Could be some mechanic's signature."

"Maybe."

Ray looked at the pictures.

"Why three?"

Nobody answered.

Frankie stood at the end of the workbench.

He looked increasingly uncomfortable.

"Bill did use marks."

Jerry looked up.

"You said that."

"I know."