The sound shut down half the room.
He crossed the garage.
Jimmy moved aside.
Gregory picked up the napkin.
His fingers trembled.
Very slightly.
Enough for Terry to notice.
“Where did you get this?”
Sky looked at him.
“My brother drew it.”
Gregory’s face became completely still.
“Your brother.”
“Yes.”
“What was his name?”
Sky hesitated.
Maybe because she had finally reached the moment she had imagined during every mile that brought her there.
Maybe because saying the name made everything that came next irreversible.
“Luther Holloway.”
The radio kept playing for another three seconds.
Then Jimmy walked over and switched it off.
The garage became silent.
Gregory stared at Sky.
Terry slowly lowered his mug.
Jeff Nolan, a twenty-four-year-old member who had joined only the previous year, looked around in confusion.
He knew the nickname Hollow.
He had heard stories.
But the older men knew the person.
Luther “Hollow” Holloway had been one of the earliest Iron Jaws.
He could repair motorcycles, but mechanics had never been the reason people remembered him.
Luther could paint.
Not simply apply color.
Paint.
He could take a blank fuel tank and make metal appear to move.
His flames had depth.
His skulls looked amused rather than dead.
His lettering carried little imperfections that made every piece unmistakably handmade.
But Hollow had one mark he rarely used.
The jawbone.
The serpent.
The missing tooth.
L.H.
It had never been an Iron Jaws club insignia.
It was Luther’s private signature.
He reserved it for bikes belonging to people he loved.
Gregory had one beneath the seat of an old Panhead he no longer rode much.
Jimmy had seen it on one photograph.
Terry remembered Luther painting it inside a toolbox.
Nobody had seen Hollow use it during the final year of his life.
And nobody had seen it at all in the nine years since his death.
Gregory looked from the napkin to Sky.
“Hollow never told us he had a sister.”
Sky’s chin lifted defensively.
“He had one.”
“How old are you?”
“Fourteen.”
Gregory did the arithmetic.
She would have been five when Luther died.
That seemed impossible.
Then he looked at her eyes.
Gray-green.
Hollow’s had been the same.
Not proof.
But enough to make old memories shift.
“What’s your name?”
“Sky Holloway.”
“Holloway was Luther’s legal last name.”
“It’s mine too.”
Terry finally spoke.
“You have identification?”
Sky looked toward him.
“No.”
“Birth certificate?”
“No.”
“Anything?”
“My backpack.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
“I know.”
Gregory still held the napkin.
“Why are you here?”
Sky’s eyes moved across the garage.
Men.
Leather cuts.
Machines.
Doors.
Windows.
Routes out.
Gregory noticed every glance.
“I need work.”
“That all?”
“Yes.”
Gregory studied her.
“No.”
Sky’s jaw tightened.
Jimmy crossed his arms.
“Kid, nobody walks however far you walked to this garage with one backpack because they need a Saturday job.”
“I need money.”
“For what?”
“Food.”
The answer changed the room.
Jimmy’s posture softened first.
Gregory set the napkin carefully on the workbench.
“Where are your parents?”
Sky said nothing.
“Sky.”
“My mother’s dead.”