“Empty rooms felt worse.”
“I got three jobs in six months.”
“Quit two.”
“Got fired from one.”
Cassie remained silent.
“One night I met Hank at a gas station.”
“Hank?”
“He wasn’t Iron Wolves yet.”
“He was just a man whose brother had died.”
“And I was a man who didn’t know what to do after surviving.”
Graham smiled faintly.
“We found other people with different versions of the same problem.”
“Was that the club?”
“Eventually.”
“Why motorcycles?”
Graham thought.
“Because riding uses up enough of your mind that ghosts have less room.”
Cassie swallowed.
“Did it cure you?”
“No.”
He smiled.
“Nothing cured anything.”
“That’s not how people work.”
“The club gave me structure.”
“Somewhere to go.”
“People who noticed if I didn’t arrive.”
“People who didn’t need explanations every time I wasn’t okay.”
He looked at Cassie.
“That’s different from being cured.”
She nodded.
Graham’s voice softened.
“And eventually I built a life outside it.”
“Your mother.”
“You.”
“Work.”
“A house.”
“Normal things.”
Cassie smiled.
“You’re not very normal.”
“Fair.”
During the memorial preparation, Graham also began teaching Cassie to ride independently.
He refused to start her on his Harley.
Instead, Hank produced an older, lighter motorcycle that had belonged to his nephew.
Cassie spent hours in an empty industrial lot.
Start.
Stop.
Turn.
Balance.
Brake.
Repeat.
The first day she stalled constantly.
Derek watched for ten minutes before losing patience.
“You’re thinking too much.”
Cassie lifted her visor.
“That seems like terrible advice.”
“It is, except here.”
He walked over.
“You’re trying to control every movement.”
“Yes.”
“Stop.”
“Again, terrible instruction.”
Derek pointed.
“Look where you want to go.”
“I know.”
“You know it like a sentence.”
“Your body doesn’t know it yet.”
Cassie stared.
Derek shrugged.
“Motorcycle goes where your attention goes.”
He stepped back.
“Try again.”
She did.
Better.
Over the next weeks, Derek helped more than he admitted.
So did Maria.
Graham remained the harshest teacher.
“Too fast.”
“I was under the limit.”
“Not talking about the speed limit.”
“Then what?”
“Your speed for your skill.”
Cassie rolled her eyes.
“You enjoy this.”
“No.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Again.”
By the memorial ride, she was licensed appropriately for her age and jurisdiction, had completed a certified safety course, and had spent enough supervised hours riding that Graham agreed she could ride her own smaller motorcycle in formation rather than remain behind him.
That permission meant more to Cassie than she expected.
Not because it made her equal to riders with forty years of experience.
It did not.
Because Graham trusted her judgment enough to let responsibility begin.
Meanwhile, Derek spent more time with Tommy.
Not dramatically.
A question here.
A wrench there.
A conversation near the coffee machine.
One evening Cassie heard Derek ask:
“You really think the outreach thing can matter?”
Tommy looked at him.
“I know it can.”
“My father thought you were trying to turn this place into a clinic.”
“Your father thought if we changed one thing, everything he loved might disappear.”
Derek leaned against the bench.
“You hated him.”
Tommy shook his head.
“No.”
“We were furious at each other.”
“That’s not the same.”
Derek looked unconvinced.
Tommy continued.