Now he was nine.
And tonight, for reasons nobody completely understood except Tank, Noah had decided that his father's ashes belonged inside the motorcycle.
Tank stepped closer.
“You put everything in?”
Noah nodded.
“Everything Mom gave me.”
His mother closed her eyes.
Tank looked at the small urn.
Then at the second filler cap.
“You did exactly what your father wanted.”
She stared at him.
“You're saying that like it's supposed to make me feel better.”
“I know.”
Tank touched the left side of the tank.
“This isn't the fuel system.”
Her expression changed.
“What?”
“The left side is separate.”
Atlas, one of the largest members of the Iron Lanterns, frowned.
“Separate how?”
Tank tapped the metal.
“Evan had me build a second chamber.”
“What kind?”
“A sealed stainless-steel chamber.”
“For what?”
Tank looked at Noah.
“For this.”
Nobody spoke.
Noah's mother stared at him.
Tank remembered a night almost three years earlier.
Rain had hammered the roof of the motorcycle shop.
Evan had been thinner then.
Much thinner.
He had stood beside the unfinished Harley, one hand resting on the welding table because standing for long periods had become difficult.
Tank had been cleaning a carburetor.
Evan had said something that sounded ridiculous.
“I want a second chamber in the tank.”
Tank had looked up.
“For what?”
“My ashes.”
Tank had laughed.
Then he realized Evan was serious.
He stopped laughing.
“No.”
Evan smiled.
“I didn't ask whether you liked the idea.”
“You're not dead.”
“Excellent observation.”
“I'm not welding your funeral into a gas tank.”
“Why not?”
“Because this is insane.”
Evan had touched the tank.
“Noah loves this motorcycle.”
“He's seven.”
“He knows it's mine.”
“He knows you're sick.”
Evan had looked toward the dark window.
“I don't know how to explain death to him.”
Tank had put down the carburetor.
“Then explain it.”
Evan smiled sadly.
“Some things can't be explained.”
He tapped the tank again.
“So give him something he can touch.”
Tank hated the idea.
But he loved Evan.
And sometimes those two things became the same reason a person said yes.
So Tank built the chamber.
He pressure-tested it.
He isolated it from the fuel system.
He made certain gasoline could never reach it.
Evan watched every step.
When the chamber was finally finished, Evan ran his fingertips across the weld.
“Good.”
Tank glared.
“Don't sound satisfied.”
“I am.”
“I hate this.”
“I know.”
“You owe me.”
Evan smiled.
“That is why there's another part.”
Tank had assumed he was joking.
He wasn't.
Now, years later, the promise had been fulfilled.
Noah closed the small memorial cap.
Then he looked at the motorcycle.
“Can we start it?”
Twenty-seven men looked toward Tank.
Tank looked toward Noah's mother.
She shook her head.
“Not yet.”
Noah lowered his eyes.