Raymond Cole had learned a long time ago that people usually made up their minds about him before he opened his mouth.
At fifty-seven, he was six feet three inches tall and built like someone who had spent most of his adult life lifting things heavier than he should have. His arms were covered with faded tattoos. A gray beard framed a face weathered by sun, wind, and too many years on the road.
Most days he wore jeans, heavy boots, a sleeveless black shirt, and a leather vest bearing the winged-skull emblem of the Iron Ravens Motorcycle Club.
Children sometimes stared at him.
Parents occasionally pulled those children closer.
Ray had stopped caring years ago.
That Tuesday morning, however, he wasn't thinking about appearances.
He was thinking about his younger brother.
The black Harley-Davidson beneath him rumbled as he turned into the parking lot of St. Matthew Medical Center.
Ray parked near the outpatient entrance and shut off the engine.
Silence rushed in.
He remained seated for several seconds.
In the right pocket of his vest was a folded piece of paper.
He didn't need to read it again.
He had already read it perhaps fifty times.
Robert Cole. Oncology Department. Room 412.
His brother.
Cancer.
Stage four.
Those words had managed to accomplish something prison fights, motorcycle crashes, military deployments, and fifty-seven years of bad decisions had never accomplished.
They terrified Raymond Cole.
He climbed from the Harley.
"Get yourself together," he muttered.
He removed his helmet.
That was when he heard a child's voice.
"Don't go."
Ray stopped.
He looked around.
A little boy stood several feet away.
Maybe six years old.
Brown hair.
Blue hoodie.
Jeans.
Small sneakers.
Ray glanced toward the hospital doors.
No adult seemed to be with him.
"Hey, buddy."
The boy didn't answer.
He stared at the motorcycle.
Ray followed his gaze.
"You like bikes?"
The boy stepped closer.
Ray smiled.
"Can't blame you. She's pretty."
The boy touched the Harley's chrome handlebar.
Ray normally didn't let strangers touch his motorcycle.
For some reason, he said nothing.
"What's your name?"
The boy looked up.
"Ethan."
"I'm Ray."
Ethan continued holding the handlebar.
"You ride this?"
"Every chance I get."
"My dad had one."
Ray's smile faded slightly.
"Had?"
The boy nodded.
"Mom sold it."
"Why?"
Ethan looked toward the hospital.
"After he went away."
Ray understood the careful language children sometimes used when adults had given them explanations they couldn't completely process.
"Where'd he go?"
The boy shrugged.
Ray crouched so they were closer to eye level.
"You here with your mom?"
Ethan nodded.
"Does she know you're outside?"
The boy looked guilty.
Ray sighed.
"That's a no."
"I just wanted to see it."
"The motorcycle?"
Ethan nodded.
"It looks like Daddy's."
Ray studied him.
"What kind did your dad have?"
"Black."
Ray almost smiled.
"That narrows it down."
"It had a silver eagle."
Something inside Ray went still.
"What?"
Ethan pointed toward the side of Ray's fuel tank.
"Like that."
Ray's Harley carried a custom silver eagle emblem.
Only twenty motorcycles had ever been made with that exact design.
Ray knew because he'd designed it.
Years ago.
For twenty members of the Iron Ravens.
He stared at the child.
"What was your father's name?"
Ethan hesitated.
"David."
Ray's pulse changed.
"David what?"
Before the boy could answer, the hospital doors opened.
A woman ran outside.
"Ethan!"
The boy turned.
"Mom!"
She rushed toward him.
She looked exhausted, frightened, and furious all at once.
She grabbed Ethan and pulled him close.
"What are you doing out here? I told you to stay beside Mrs. Palmer!"
"I'm sorry."
"I've been looking everywhere."
Then she noticed Ray.
Her expression changed.
Ray stood.
The woman stared at his vest.
Then at his motorcycle.
Then at his face.
The color slowly disappeared from hers.
Ray knew her.
He had seen her before.
Not recently.
Not in person.
But in photographs.
A wedding photograph.
Christmas pictures.
Pictures David kept taped inside his locker at the Ravens' clubhouse.
Ray whispered:
"Claire?"
The woman froze.
"How do you know my name?"
Ray looked at Ethan.
Then back at her.
"Your husband."
Claire tightened her arms around her son.
"What about him?"
Ray swallowed.
"David Mercer was an Iron Raven."
Claire stared.