"Why me?"
Ray knew that question.
Survivors asked it in a thousand forms.
There was rarely an answer.
So Ray said:
"I don't know."
David nodded.
Ray continued.
"But you're here."
He pointed toward Ethan.
The boy was trying to convince Claire to let him sit on David's motorcycle.
"That's what matters now."
David watched his son.
Then smiled.
"Yeah."
Seven years later, Ray Cole stood outside a motorcycle garage on a Saturday morning.
He was sixty-four now.
His beard was almost completely white.
His knees hurt.
His back complained constantly.
And according to Claire, he had become even more stubborn with age.
A black Harley sat outside.
The same Harley Ethan had grabbed years earlier.
Ray was polishing the tank when a motorcycle approached.
He recognized the engine before seeing the rider.
Silver and black.
David.
Against early medical expectations, David had recovered enough to ride again.
His memory was never perfect.
There were years he remembered only in fragments.
Names occasionally disappeared.
Dates confused him.
But the important things returned.
Claire.
Ethan.
Ray.
The Ravens.
Home.
David parked.
"You're polishing that thing again?"
"Respect your elders."
"You're twelve years older than me."
"Ancient wisdom."
David removed his helmet.
"Where's Ethan?"
"Inside."
They entered.
A seventeen-year-old boy leaned over a motorcycle.
Ethan had grown tall.
Almost as tall as David.
He wore a blue hoodie beneath a work apron.
Ray had taught him basic mechanics.
David taught him the rest.
"What's wrong with it?" Ray asked.
Ethan didn't look up.
"Fuel."
"Specific."
"Give me a minute."
David smiled.
Ray whispered:
"He's just like you."
"Poor kid."
Ethan removed a line.
"Found it."
He repaired the connection.
The engine started.
Ray nodded approvingly.
"Not terrible."
Ethan rolled his eyes.
"That's basically a standing ovation from him," David explained.
They closed the shop that evening.
Outside, three motorcycles waited.
Ray's black Harley.
David's silver-and-black Harley.
And a smaller used motorcycle Ethan had rebuilt himself.
Claire arrived in her car.
She stared at the three riders.
"No."
Ethan smiled.
"Mom."
"No."
"I'm seventeen."
"Exactly."
"I have my permit."
"Unfortunately."
David approached her.
"He'll be between us."
Claire looked at Ray.
"You're encouraging this."
Ray placed a hand over his heart.
"I am deeply offended."
"You bought him the motorcycle."
"I helped."
"You paid seventy percent."
"Details."
Claire sighed.
She looked at Ethan.
Then at David.
Years earlier she had hated motorcycles because they represented everything she believed had taken her husband away.
Eventually she understood that the machines weren't responsible.
They were simply part of David.
Part of Ray.
Now part of Ethan.
"Helmet," she said.
Ethan grinned.
"Already on."
"Protective jacket."
He zipped it.
"Speed limit."
"Yes, Mom."
"And you stay between your father and Ray."
"I know."
She hugged him.
Then whispered:
"Come home."
Ethan's expression softened.
"Always."
The three motorcycles started.
Ray led.
Ethan rode second.
David followed.
They traveled through town.
Soon buildings disappeared behind them.
Open road stretched ahead.
Ray checked his mirror.
Ethan was there.
Behind Ethan was David.
For a moment Ray remembered that morning outside St. Matthew Medical Center.
A frightened six-year-old boy.
A black Harley.
Tiny hands wrapped around chrome handlebars.
Don't go.
Ray hadn't understood those words at the time.
Maybe Ethan hadn't either.
The child had simply seen something familiar.
Something connected to a father he thought he'd lost.