Brandon still hadn’t moved. His face hadn’t changed. He wasn’t crying. He wasn’t smiling.
He just stood there, holding his grandmother’s hand, looking at the man he’d grown up reading about in library books. Maylene was the one whose eyes were wet.
Hank saw her. He took his helmet from under his arm and held it against his chest. A small gesture, an old one.
He gave her a single, deep nod. Ma’am. She nodded back. She didn’t say anything yet.
Hank turned back to Brandon. I told you, son. We don’t forget. I meant it.
We’ve got a few things to talk about, you and me. And your grandmother. But not here. Not in front of all this.
He looked at the news camera, then back at Brandon. Come to the shop tomorrow morning, 10:00. Bring her with you. We’ve got business.
Brandon found his voice. Yes, sir. Hank put one hand on Brandon’s good shoulder, squeezed once.
The compass ring caught the late afternoon sun. Then he turned, swung his leg back over the Panhead, and pulled his helmet down.
43 engines started at once. The street shook with it. Nobody on that block forgot the sound for the rest of their lives.
The next morning, Brandon and his grandmother stepped out of an Uber in front of the biggest custom motorcycle shop in the state.
Hank Callaway was standing at the front door with a folder in his hand. He didn’t wait for them to walk up. He came down the steps to meet them.
Mrs. Sullivan. Mr. Callaway? Thank you for coming, both of you.
He held the door open. The brass handle had the same compass design as his ring. Brandon noticed. Maylene noticed Brandon notice.
Inside the building was a converted warehouse. 15,000 square feet of polished concrete floor, exposed brick, and motorcycles.
Brandon had only ever seen these bikes in library books. Now they were 6 ft away. He didn’t reach out to touch them. He kept his hands at his sides. He kept walking.
