I barely had time to smile before the leader grabbed the back of my shirt and hauled me away from the engine. I landed on the pavement. My wrench clattered beside me. Nobody spoke. My arm throbbed. My knuckles were scraped raw.
The leader knelt. "What did you do?"
Freed the line.
You sure?
I nodded. "Try it."
He didn't move. "You try it."
I blinked. "What?"
He pulled the keys from his pocket and tossed them. I caught them awkwardly.
Your fix. He pointed. "You start it."
I stood. My knees were weak. Twenty bikers watched. Mr. Pritchard watched through the store window. The clock above the door read 10:59.
I walked to the motorcycle. The key shook between my fingers. I inserted it. Turned. The instrument panel lit. I found the starter. Pressed.
The engine turned once. Twice. Then β BOOM.
The V-twin erupted into a deep, steady thunder. The sound rolled across the parking lot and struck me in the chest. I laughed. Actually laughed. Not because the motorcycle ran. Because for the first time in weeks, something had gone right.
The leader looked at the engine. Then at me. Deke's mouth was hanging open. Someone behind him said, "I'll be damned." Another rider shouted, "Kid did it!" A few started laughing. Someone clapped.
Then the leader raised one hand. Silence.
He walked to the saddle. Picked up the cash. Five thousand dollars. My entire future in one fist. He approached me. I could barely breathe. He placed the bills in my hand.
That covers the bike.
I stared at the money. I had never held that much cash. "Thank you." My voice cracked.
The leader didn't let go. "What did you mean?"
I looked up. "About what?"
When you said she needs this.
I considered lying. Instead, I told him. "My mom."
The parking lot seemed to shrink. "She's sick."
How sick?
I looked away. "Bad."
He waited. I swallowed. "Cancer."
Nobody moved.
We're getting evicted Monday. I tried to laugh, but it came out wrong. "So five grand is kind of a big night for me."
The leader's hand closed tighter around mine. "What's your name?"
Caleb.
Caleb what?
Mitchell.
The effect was immediate. His fingers went still. His eyes narrowed. "What?"
Mitchell.
Your mother's name? The question surprised me. "Why?"
Her name.
Laura.
Something happened to his face. It wasn't pity. It wasn't recognition exactly. It was shock. Then fear. He stepped backward.
Deke noticed. "Bear?"
So that was his name. Bear.
He looked at Deke. Then at me. "Laura Mitchell?"
Yes.
He stared at me like I had stopped being a stranger. "How old did you say you were?"
Eighteen.
He turned away. Walked three steps. Stopped. One of the other riders murmured, "Bear, what is it?" He didn't answer. I looked from one man to another. "What?"
Bear rubbed both hands over his face. Then he turned back. "Where does your mother live?"
The question chilled me. "Why?"
I want to meet her.
No.
Caleb.
How do you know her name?
He looked at the pavement. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. "I knew a Laura Mitchell once."
My stomach tightened. "My mom never mentioned you."
I wouldn't expect her to.
That sounded wrong. Everything about it sounded wrong. I closed my fist around the cash. Bear saw the movement. "Easy."
You're the one asking where my sick mother lives.
I know.
Why?
He looked toward the bike. Then back at me. "Because eighteen years ago, I made a promise to a woman named Laura Mitchell."
My heartbeat climbed. "What promise?"
Bear did not answer. He reached into his vest and pulled out his wallet. From behind his driver's license, he removed a folded photograph. Old. Creased. He held it out. I didn't take it.
What is that?
Look.
I hesitated. Then took the picture. Four people stood outside a motorcycle repair shop. A younger Bear. A woman with red hair. Another biker. And β my mother. Not sick. Not thin. Not tired. Young. Smiling. Her arm around Bear's shoulder. I stared.
That's not possible.
Bear said nothing.
My mom hates motorcycles.
Deke gave a strange cough. Bear glanced at him.
I looked at the photo again. Mom wore grease-covered overalls. Her hair was tied back. In one hand she held a carburetor. Across the top of the repair shop was a sign. HARRIS & MITCHELL PERFORMANCE.
My throat closed. "What is this?"
Bear answered softly. "Before she was your mother, Laura Mitchell was one of the best motorcycle mechanics I ever knew."
I laughed β not because it was funny. Because the alternative was believing him. "No."
It's true.
She worked at Murphy's Diner.
After.
After what?
Bear looked at me. Then at the scar across his eyebrow. "After us."
I folded the photograph. "You're lying."
Why would I?
I don't know.
Ask her.
She's dying.
His face tightened. "I heard you."
She doesn't need strangers walking into her home bringing up whatever this is.
Bear took the photograph from me. "I understand."
No, you don't.
I backed away. "Thanks for the money."
Caleb.
No. I walked toward the station. Behind me, he called again. "Caleb."
I stopped.
He said, "Did she ever tell you your father's name?"
Every nerve in my body went cold. I turned. Deke whispered something under his breath. Bear stood motionless.
My father had been a subject my mother kept sealed behind three answers. His name was Daniel. He died before I was born. And he had been a good man. That was all.
Yes, I said.
What name?
Daniel Mitchell.
Bear closed his eyes. When he opened them, something inside them looked broken. "That was not his name."
I walked back toward him. "What did you say?"
He reached into his wallet again. This time he removed another photograph. He handed it to me. A young man stood beside my mother. Tall. Dark hair. Mechanic's shirt. A crooked smile. Behind him, the same repair shop. He looked nothing like me. Then my eyes dropped to the bottom of the photograph. Someone had written three names in blue ink.