Chapter 5: The Triumph

The Riders' dinner started at seven.

By eight the shop's back lot was empty except for a flatbed trailer with its lights off.

Rafe backed it up to the loading door without a sound.

I stood on the concrete in my father's jacket with June's brass key in my fist.

"If this goes wrong," Rafe said quietly, "you get in the truck and you leave me."

"If this goes wrong, I'll tell them I made you."

"That's not better."

"It's true, though."

He almost smiled again, the second time in three days.

I turned the key.

The lock gave with a small click, the way it must have given for his father years ago.

Inside, the shop was dark and smelled of oil and cold metal.

Rafe's flashlight moved over the lifts, the tool wall, the register where my coffee mug sat.

Then it stopped.

The Triumph stood in the corner, uncovered now, the red tag still wired to the bars.

My throat closed.

I walked to it and put my hand on the tank.

It was the place where my father used to rest his palm.

"Hey, Daddy," I whispered.

Rafe didn't say anything.

He came up beside me and, very gently, took the SOLD tag between two fingers and snapped the wire.

"Walt used to let me sit on this," he said. "I was sixteen. He told me if I scratched it, he'd find out."

"He would have."

"I know."

I looked at him in the dark.

He was looking at the bike, and his face was so open that I looked away.

We got the ramp down.

He rolled the Bonneville across the shop floor with one hand on the bars.

The other hand was flat on my back, so I wouldn't have to carry any of it.

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