“And your father?”
“Not around.”
“Guardian?”
Silence.
Gregory leaned against the bench.
“Where did you sleep last night?”
Sky looked at him.
That was the first moment her confidence cracked.
“Bus station.”
Nobody laughed anymore.
Gregory exhaled slowly.
Then he picked up the napkin.
“You said your brother drew this.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“When I was little.”
“You remember him painting?”
Sky’s face changed.
The defensiveness faded slightly.
“Every weekend I got with him.”
That made more sense.
Luther had not taught a five-year-old professional motorcycle painting.
He had let her sit beside him.
He had handed her cheap brushes.
Let her mix colors.
Shown her how flames were built from darker layers beneath lighter ones.
Shown her where shadows should fall.
Taught her to make lines using her whole arm instead of only her wrist.
Sky had spent the next nine years repeating those lessons on paper.
Memory had become practice.
Practice had become skill.
Gregory handed the napkin to Jimmy.
Jimmy stared at it.
Then at Sky.
“All right.”
Sky waited.
“You want to paint?”
“Yes.”
Jimmy walked toward a storage rack.
He returned carrying a stripped motorcycle tank that had been sanded and primed but was not intended for any active customer project.
He set it down.
“One hour.”
He placed several brushes beside it.
Then small amounts of paint.
“No stencil.”
Sky nodded.
“No transfer paper.”
Another nod.
“No tracing.”
“I don’t need it.”
Jimmy raised an eyebrow.
“Confidence.”
Sky rolled up the jacket sleeves another turn.
“What do you want?”
Jimmy thought.
“Hollow’s flames.”
Her eyes sharpened.
“You remember them?”
“Yes.”
“All right.”
She reached for a brush.
Then stopped.
“What colors?”
Jimmy slid several containers toward her.
“Your choice.”
Sky started.
At first, everyone pretended not to watch.
Terry moved toward the refrigerator.
Jeff returned to sorting hardware.
Someone restarted the radio quietly.
Jimmy picked up his own brush.
Gregory went back to his invoices.
But within ten minutes Gregory had not turned one page.
Sky did not draw an outline.
That surprised Jimmy.
She laid in broad, dark shapes first.
Deep red.
Then black.
Then narrow orange edges that appeared almost accidental until the pattern developed.
Her hand was quick.
Not perfect.
There were small inconsistencies Luther would never have allowed on a finished customer bike.
But the movement was his.
Jimmy saw it.
The way she rotated the tank rather than twisting her wrist.
The way she stepped back after every major line.
The way she tilted her head when evaluating negative space.
Luther used to do the same thing.
Thirty minutes passed.
Then forty.
People drifted closer.
Sky seemed not to notice.
At fifty-eight minutes, she placed the brush down.
Nobody spoke.
The tank was not finished to showroom quality.
It could not have been in an hour.
But the design was there.
Red flames rising from black.
Thin gold highlights.
A small break in one flame near the bottom.
Jimmy stared at that break.
“Hollow used to do that.”
Sky nodded.
“He said perfect flames looked printed.”
Jimmy looked toward Gregory.