He cut behind the Sunoco station on 5th Street. He didn’t see the bike yet. Two blocks away, the man who built the bike was pumping fuel into the tank.
His name was Henry Callaway. He was 60 years old. Cherry-red 1959 Panhead, polished tank, custom pinstripe work he’d done with his own hands when he was 30.
He was alone. His phone had died an hour ago. He’d ridden out alone today because he liked riding alone. He always had.
He noticed the boys when they got out of the Chevy. He noticed the way they looked at his bike before they looked at him.
He’d been around long enough to know what that meant. He didn’t move. He kept pumping fuel. Trent Vaughn walked up first.
22 years old. Cocky in the way only broke boys with nothing to lose are cocky. He whistled like he was impressed. Look at this antique, boys.
Grandpa rode his tricycle to the wrong side of town. Hank didn’t answer. Cody spat on the pavement 2 ft from Hank’s boot.
Old man, you lost? Nursing home’s the other way. Hank didn’t answer. The third one, Brett, laughed.
The other three spread out behind. Six of them now. Six on one. What, you deaf old-timer? Or just too old to hear?
Hank set the pump back in the cradle. He still didn’t turn around. Trent walked a slow circle around the Panhead, stopped at the front, pretended to admire it.
Whistled again. How much you think this thing’s worth, boys? Eight grand? 10?
That grandpa won’t even remember where he parked it tomorrow. A pickup truck rolled past the gas station. The driver looked, counted the numbers, kept driving.
Cody kicked the back tire. Hank’s shoulders tensed for half a second, then went still. He still didn’t turn around.
That stillness should have told them something. It didn’t. Trent’s smile dropped.
He walked over to the corner of the lot where the old air pump used to be. There was a metal toolbox sitting on its side, abandoned, half full of rust water and forgotten parts.
