My arm throbbed. My knuckles were scraped, and the skin along my forearm was already turning red.
But I stared at the motorcycle.
"Try it," I said.
Bear knelt beside me.
"What did you do?"
"Freed the fuel line."
"You're sure?"
I nodded.
"Start it."
He looked at the motorcycle, then at me.
"Your repair."
He pulled the keys from his pocket and tossed them.
I caught them awkwardly.
"You start it."
My knees felt weak as I stood.
Twenty bikers watched.
Mr. Pritchard watched from behind the store window.
The clock above the convenience store door read 10:59.
I walked toward the chopper.
The key shook between my fingers.
I inserted it, turned it, and watched the instrument panel light up.
Then I pressed the starter.
The engine turned once.
Twice.
A third time.
For a terrible second, nothing happened.
Then the V-twin erupted.
The sound rolled across the parking lot, deep and powerful, shaking the air beneath the canopy.
The engine settled into a steady, thunderous idle.
I stood motionless.
Then I laughed.
Actually laughed.
Not because the motorcycle was running.
Because for the first time in weeks, something had gone right.
Deke's mouth hung open.
Someone behind him shouted, "The kid did it!"
Another biker slapped a friend on the shoulder.
A few men laughed in disbelief, and one began clapping.
Bear raised a hand.
The noise subsided.
He walked to the saddle and picked up the stack of money.
Five thousand dollars.
He approached me slowly.
I could barely breathe.
He placed the bills in my hand.
"That covers the bike."
I stared at the money.
I had never held so much cash.
"Thank you," I whispered.
My voice cracked.
Bear didn't immediately release my hand.
"What did you mean?"
I looked up.
"About what?"
"When you said she needs this."
I considered lying.
I could have told him that my mother had bills, that I needed the money for school, or that the rent was overdue.
Instead, I told him the truth.
"My mom has cancer."
His expression changed.
"We're getting evicted Monday. I missed too much work taking care of her, and the medical bills have swallowed everything we had."
I tried to smile.
"So, yeah. Five grand is kind of a big night for me."
Bear's fingers tightened around mine.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he asked a question that had nothing to do with money.
"What's your name?"
"Caleb."
"Caleb what?"
"Mitchell."
The effect was immediate.
His fingers went still.
His eyes narrowed, and the expression on his face shifted from curiosity to something I couldn't identify.
Shock, perhaps.
Then fear.
He released my hand and took a step backward.
Deke noticed.
"Bear?"
Bear didn't answer him.
He stared at me.
"What's your mother's name?"
"Why?"
"Her name."
"Laura."
The big man looked as though the ground had shifted beneath him.
"Laura Mitchell?"
"Yes."
He turned away, rubbing both hands over his face.
Deke approached him.
"What is it?"
Bear shook his head.
I looked from one man to another.
"What's going on?"
Bear turned back.
"How old are you?"
"Eighteen."
He closed his eyes.
When he opened them, the look on his face had changed again.
It wasn't pity.
It wasn't even surprise anymore.
It was the expression of a man who had spent eighteen years trying to bury something and had just discovered that it was still alive.
"Where does your mother live?"
I closed my fist around the money.
"Why?"
"I want to see her."
"No."
"Caleb—"
"You don't know me."
"I know."
"And you don't get to ask where my sick mother lives just because I fixed your motorcycle."
He looked down at the pavement.
For a moment, I thought he might become angry.
Instead, he nodded.
"You're right."
That answer surprised me more than anything else he had said.
He reached into his vest and removed his wallet.
From behind his driver's license, he pulled a folded photograph.
It was old, creased, and faded around the edges.
He held it out.
"Look at this."
I didn't take it.
"What is it?"
"Something I should have shown someone a long time ago."
I hesitated, then accepted the photograph.
Four people stood outside a motorcycle repair shop.
One was a younger version of Bear, his beard dark and his face unmarked by the years.
Beside him stood a red-haired woman in grease-stained overalls.
Another man leaned against the shop door, tall and broad-shouldered, with a crooked smile and dark hair.
And the fourth person—
My mother.
She looked nothing like the woman in the hospital bed.
Her hair was tied back, her face was healthy, and her smile was so bright that I felt as though I were looking at someone I had never met.
She had one arm around Bear's shoulder and a carburetor in her other hand.
Above the shop door, a sign read:
HARRIS & MITCHELL PERFORMANCE.
My throat tightened.
"That's not possible."
Bear stood quietly beside me.
"My mother worked at Murphy's Diner."
"Later."
"She never talked about motorcycles."
"She had her reasons."
"She hates motorcycles."
Deke made a strange sound in his throat.
Bear glanced at him.
Then he looked back at me.
"Before she was your mother, Laura Mitchell was one of the best motorcycle mechanics I ever knew."
I laughed.
It wasn't a happy laugh.
It was the sound of my mind refusing to accept something that had arrived without warning.
"You're lying."
"Why would I?"
"I don't know."
"Ask her."
"She's dying."
His face tightened.
"I heard you."
I folded the photograph and handed it back.
"Thanks for the money. I have to go."
"Caleb."
"No."
I turned toward the convenience store.
He called after me again.
"Did your mother ever tell you your father's name?"
Every nerve in my body went cold.
I stopped.
My father had always been a subject sealed behind three answers.
His name was Daniel Mitchell.
He had died before I was born.
And he had been a good man.
That was all.
Whenever I asked for more, my mother would touch my cheek and tell me that some stories hurt too much to tell.
When I was little, I had accepted the explanation.
When I grew older, I stopped asking.
Now, standing in a gas station parking lot with five thousand dollars in my hand, I turned toward a biker who seemed to know more about my father than I did.
"Yes," I said.
"What name?"
"Daniel Mitchell."
Bear closed his eyes.
When he opened them, something inside them looked broken.
"That wasn't his name."
I walked back toward him.
"What did you say?"
He reached into his wallet again and removed another photograph.
This one showed the dark-haired man standing beside my mother.
They were younger than in the first picture. My mother was laughing, her head tilted toward him, while he held a wrench in one hand and rested the other on her shoulder.
On the bottom of the photograph, someone had written three names in blue ink.
Laura.
Bear.
Evan.
I stared at the final name.
"Who is Evan?"
Bear's voice was almost a whisper.
"Your father."
For several seconds, I couldn't hear anything.
Not the motorcycles.