The motorcycle shop had never been this quiet.
Twenty-seven members of the Iron Lanterns had gathered beneath the long fluorescent lights, but nobody was talking.
There were usually too many sounds in the shop to notice silence.
Air compressors hissed.
Metal tools clanged against workbenches.
Old radios played classic rock through speakers that had been repaired more times than anyone could remember.
Motorcycle engines occasionally roared to life.
Someone was always arguing about carburetors, tires, oil, or whether a particular model had been ruined by modern electronics.
Tonight, none of that mattered.
Everyone was watching a nine-year-old boy.
Noah Price stood beside an unfinished black Harley with a small memorial urn in both hands.
His mother stood ten feet away.
Her face had gone completely pale.
“Mason,” she whispered.
Mason Callahan did not answer.
Everyone in the shop called him Tank.
He was a massive man with gray beginning to appear in his beard, shoulders broad enough to make motorcycle jackets look too small, and hands that seemed permanently stained with grease.
But at that moment, he looked strangely helpless.
Noah lifted the urn.
A thin stream of gray ash slipped through his fingers.
It disappeared into a small opening on the left side of the Harley's matte-black fuel tank.
Someone behind him whispered, “Oh, God.”
Another biker took one step forward.
Tank raised a hand.
“Don't.”
The biker stopped.
Noah continued pouring.
The ash disappeared.
His fingers trembled.
A few grains landed on the black paint.
When the urn was nearly empty, Noah looked at Tank.
“Is this where Dad goes?”
Tank swallowed.
For two years, he had imagined this question.
He had imagined answering it while driving.
While standing beside Evan's hospital bed.
While working alone late at night.
While looking at the unfinished motorcycle.
But imagination had never prepared him for a child's eyes.
Tank nodded.
“Yeah, kid.”
Noah looked relieved.
His mother did not.
“What do you mean, yes?”
Tank turned toward her.
She stared at him.
“You knew.”
It was not a question.
Tank lowered his hand.
“Yes.”
“You knew he wanted this?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
Tank looked at the Harley.
“Since before his last surgery.”
Her eyes filled instantly.
“And you never told me?”
“He made me promise.”
She shook her head.
“You stood beside me at his funeral.”
“I know.”
“You helped me raise Noah.”
“I know.”
“You were there when Evan died.”
“I know.”
“And you knew he wanted his ashes put inside a motorcycle?”
Tank's voice became quiet.
“He wanted Noah to have a place where he could feel close to him.”
“That doesn't answer my question.”
“No,” Tank said. “It doesn't.”
The room remained silent.
Noah looked from one adult to the other.
Then he touched the Harley's fuel tank.
The motorcycle had belonged to his father.
At least, that was how everyone described it.
Evan Price had spent six years building it.
Not because he needed another motorcycle.
He already had two.
This one was different.
It was supposed to be the machine he built slowly, carefully, deliberately.
Every part had a reason.
The frame was black.
The engine was black.
The tank was matte black without a logo.
The handlebars were tall but practical.
The rear fender was unfinished.
The seat had not yet been installed.
Wiring still hung beneath the frame.
It looked like a machine waiting for someone to finish a sentence.
Evan had never heard it run.
Cancer had taken him before he could finish.
Two years earlier, he had died at forty-six.
Noah had been seven.