Brian looked at him for a long time. Then he stepped forward and let Rex hold him. The embrace was awkward because the boy did not know whether to put his arms around the man's waist or shoulders, and Rex did not know how tightly to hold a child who was trying not to break. But neither let go quickly, and that was enough.
The funeral arrangements were handled with the appropriate family, estate, and care representatives, with Rex and the others helping wherever they were asked. Brian was included in decisions suitable for his age, and no one made him perform grief for the benefit of the club. He chose a photograph of James smiling beside the FXRS for the memorial display and asked that the old man's blue notebook be placed nearby. He wanted people to remember the hands that had worked, not only the man who had been ill at the end.
Thunderfork held its gathering at the garage on a Saturday morning. Twenty motorcycles lined the parking lot, washed and polished, their owners standing beside them in clean jeans and dark jackets. The old FXRS stood at the front beneath a small arrangement of flowers, ready to be included in the procession after passing its final inspections. Brian did not ride it; he stood beside the seat while Rex placed a hand on the handlebar and spoke quietly to the men assembled around them.
"Jaime knew how to fix things," Rex said. "I wish I'd paid more attention to how he fixed people. He wasn't perfect, and neither were we. But when the time came to choose between doing what was easy and protecting his family, he chose the people who needed him. I didn't understand that then. I do now."
The men listened without interruption. Butcher stood with his jaw tight, turning a folded bandanna between his fingers, while Diesel looked toward the road and blinked rapidly. Crow carried a small photograph of James on a road trip, laughing with his face turned into the wind. Millie stood beside Denise, both giving Brian the space to decide whether he wanted to speak.
He had written something the night before but could not bear to read it aloud. Rex told him there was no obligation, and Brian almost accepted that permission. Then he saw the old Harley at the head of the line, a machine whose every repaired part carried a memory of somebody else's hands, and he stepped forward.
"Grandpa used to say a machine tells you what's wrong if you listen," Brian began. His voice was small, but the men moved closer so he would not need to shout. "He told me that about engines a hundred times. I didn't know he was trying to teach me something else."
He stopped and drew a breath. "When he got sick, I thought I had to fix everything by myself. I came here and asked Rex to let me stay if I could make the bike run. I thought I had to earn a place. But everybody helped me when I couldn't do it, and they kept helping after it was done."
Brian looked toward Rex, then at the men standing behind him. "Grandpa was right. The bike did need fixing. But I think the thing he wanted most was for us to stop being strangers."