Hands holding paintbrushes.
The Iron Jaws garage as she remembered it from childhood.
One supervisor took the notebook during an argument over lights-out.
When Sky protested, he said personal property was a privilege.
The notebook disappeared.
Sky found it the next night in an outside trash bin, damp but recoverable.
She left before sunrise.
For nearly two weeks she stayed ahead of formal systems.
Bus stations.
Fast-food restaurants.
A church basement one night.
A laundromat chair another.
She washed in public restrooms.
Accepted small cash jobs.
Drew portraits for people at a weekend market.
Then she found an old napkin inside the back pocket of her sketchbook.
The emblem.
Luther had drawn it years earlier while waiting for pancakes.
On the back, in faded ink, he had once written an address.
Iron Jaws.
Sky followed the address.
Lucy listened.
Then asked:
“Why didn’t Luther tell the club about you?”
Sky shrugged.
“He said those were two worlds.”
“What did he mean?”
“He said the club was his family.”
Lucy waited.
“And?”
Sky looked at her.
“He said I was his responsibility.”
That sentence bothered Lucy.
“Not family?”
Sky thought.
“He said something else once.”
“What?”
“That if anybody from one world ever knew too much about the other, they could use it.”
Lucy became still.
“Use what?”
“Me.”
That night Lucy began searching old records.
Iron Jaws kept more records than outsiders imagined.
Insurance.
Property.
Legal filings.
Membership archives.
Old correspondence.
Luther’s file was thin.
Then Lucy found a photocopy of a family-court petition.
She read it twice.
Luther Holloway had indeed filed for custody.
Not once.
Twice.
The second petition included letters from teachers and a mechanic who employed him.
There was also a summary from a court-appointed evaluator.
Luther’s relationship with Iron Jaws had been identified as a risk factor.
There were references to law-enforcement contacts involving the club.
One sealed attachment was unavailable.
Another page mentioned reported incidents affecting Sky’s existing placement.
Lucy printed everything.
Gregory read it after closing.
His face tightened.
“He never told me.”
“He tried to protect both sides.”
Gregory stared at Luther’s signature.
“I could’ve testified.”
“Maybe he thought that would hurt more than help.”
“I could’ve done something.”
Lucy closed the folder.
“You’re doing something now.”
Gregory looked through the office window toward Sky.
She was painting a helmet.
“She should’ve been five.”
“She was.”
“He was trying to raise a five-year-old.”
“Yes.”
Gregory looked old suddenly.
“I thought he was distracted that year.”
Lucy understood.
“He was trying to become a parent.”
Word about Sky’s work spread.
That created a new problem.
Older riders came by.
People who remembered Hollow.
They watched Sky paint and quietly shook their heads.
One man named Roscoe brought an old photograph.
It showed Luther sitting on a garage floor with a little girl between his knees.
The girl held a brush.
Paint covered both hands.
Sky stared at it for nearly a minute.
“That’s me.”
Gregory looked over her shoulder.
He remembered the day.
He simply had not known who the child was.
Luther had introduced her as a relative.
Nothing more.
Sky touched the corner of the photograph.
“Can I keep this?”
Roscoe handed it to her.
“That’s why I brought it.”
For the first time since arriving, Sky added something to her backpack that was not meant for survival.
A memory.
The mural began three days later.
Nobody assigned it.