“I did it.”
“Check again.”
Cassie did.
Graham pointed to the passenger pegs.
“Mount from the left.”
“I know.”
“Do it.”
She climbed on.
“Feet stay planted.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t fight the lean.”
“Yes.”
“If I tap your knee twice—”
“Stop squirming.”
Graham nodded.
“Good.”
Cassie rolled her eyes.
The Harley started.
Every thought disappeared into vibration.
They met the Iron Wolves outside Rusty’s.
Sixteen motorcycles.
Maria rode her own dark red Heritage Softail.
Derek sat astride a newer black bike with polished pipes.
Hank rode an old Electra Glide that looked as weathered as he did.
Cassie immediately realized another assumption she had made.
She expected disorder.
Instead, everything had a structure.
Road captain.
Formation.
Hand signals.
Fuel plan.
Emergency procedure.
Pairing.
Nobody explained these things dramatically.
They simply happened.
Hank walked over.
“You bring the notebook?”
Cassie tapped her bag.
“Good.”
“Don’t write while moving.”
She stared.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Your generation makes me nervous.”
They left town just after sunrise.
The road climbed through wooded hills.
Orange and red leaves blurred past.
At first Cassie loved it.
For fifteen minutes, she understood every romantic sentence she had ever read about motorcycles.
Then her hips began hurting.
Then her lower back.
Then her knees.
Then the wind.
Then the constant concentration.
Three hours later, they stopped at a scenic rest area above the river.
Cassie climbed off and nearly fell.
Maria caught her elbow.
“Easy.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re walking like a ninety-year-old.”
“I’m adapting.”
Maria handed her water.
“First long ride kicks everybody’s ass.”
Derek passed them.
“Some people’s faster than others.”
Cassie ignored him.
Maria lit a cigarette.
“You want advice?”
“Yes.”
“Stop trying to prove you don’t hurt.”
Cassie looked at her.
Maria exhaled smoke.
“Everybody hurts.”
“The trick is knowing which pain is normal.”
Cassie stretched her legs.
“Dad tell you to say that?”
“No.”
Maria studied her.
“Your dad tell you why I’m here?”
Cassie shook her head.
Maria’s eyes moved toward the road.
“My husband, Luis, rode with the Wolves.”
“When?”
“Seventies.”
She tapped ash onto the pavement.
“1978, drunk driver crossed the center line.”
Cassie’s face changed.
“I’m sorry.”
“Long time ago.”
Maria’s voice made it clear that time did not erase weight.
“He died before the ambulance arrived.”
“The club held a memorial ride.”
“I showed up wearing his cut.”
Cassie looked at Maria’s vest.
“His?”
“Not this one.”
Maria smiled faintly.
“I wore his.”
“Club rules said no.”
“So Hank tried to take it from me.”
Across the parking lot, Hank shouted:
“You make it sound worse than it was.”
Maria called back:
“You had three men behind you.”
Hank laughed.
Maria looked at Cassie.
“I told them I’d give it back when they gave me Luis.”
Cassie swallowed.
“What happened?”
“Nothing dramatic.”
“I kept showing up.”
“At first they treated me like grief with legs.”
“Then like somebody’s widow.”
“Then eventually like Maria.”