But she was tired. The numbers in her notebook were wrong again. And he was home.

Sit down. Let me see it. He sat.

She unwrapped the bandana, looked at the bruise, cleaned it gently, rewrapped it with gauze from the medicine cabinet. The blue bandana she folded carefully and set on the table beside her notebook.

She didn’t ask again. He didn’t offer. That night, Brandon lay in his bed staring at the water stain on the ceiling.

His arm throbbed. His shoulder throbbed. Three words kept circling through his head over and over. We don’t forget. We don’t forget. We don’t forget.

By the next morning, three things had already started moving. Brandon didn’t know about any of them.

The first was a black SUV winding up a private road into the hills outside town. Wyatt Donovan was in the passenger seat.

Everyone called him Preacher. He was on the phone. He was not smiling. Yeah, he’s fine. Two cracked ribs, maybe. Won’t say. You know him.

No, some kid pulled him out. Black kid, 18, skinny, from the East Side. Yeah, I know. I know.

Hank wants the whole table at the shop tomorrow. Whole table. And bring the photographer. He hung up.

The SUV climbed the hill, past the gate, past the dogs. The second thing was happening downtown.

Linda Brennan, a reporter at the local news station, frowned at the voicemail on her desk phone. She listened to it twice.

Then she walked to the records room, pulled an old Manila folder from a low cabinet nobody had opened in years. The tab read, Callaway, Henry, Custom Cycles, 1995 to present.

She opened it. The first photo was a man in his 30s standing in front of a small shop. Cherry red Panhead behind him.

She picked up her phone, dialed. Hey, it’s Linda. I think I have something.

The third thing was inside the chapter clubhouse on the edge of town. Wood walls, leather chairs, a long oak table.

The wall behind Hank’s seat was covered floor to ceiling in framed photographs of bikes and the men who had built them. Hank sat at the head.

10 other men sat down the table. Nobody touched their coffee. He spoke quietly. He didn’t need to be loud, either.

There’s a kid, Hartman’s Auto on the east side. I want to know everything about him. Family, school, medical, bills, trouble, friends, everything.

One of the older men spoke up. What are we doing with this, Hank? Hank looked at him a long moment.

25 years I’ve sat at this table. We’ve spent 25 years remembering. Now I want to know if it’s time to start passing it on.