At eighteen, Leo graduated high school.
Jim Mercer attended.
So did Hank.
Pete wore a tie for the first time anyone at Apex could remember.
Big Dave cried and denied it.
Tommy claimed allergies.
Rusty sat beside Leo's mother during the ceremony.
When Leo walked across the stage, she gripped Rusty's hand.
“Arthur should be here.”
Rusty nodded.
“Yeah.”
Then he looked toward Leo.
“But a lot of him is.”
Jim kept his promise.
Not through illegal cash.
Not through some mysterious club fund.
He helped establish a legitimate scholarship contribution with several people who had known Arthur and Dutch.
Rusty contributed.
So did riders Arthur had helped over the years.
Leo earned additional financial aid on his own.
He entered an engineering program with a focus on mechanical systems.
During summers, he returned to Apex.
Not because he needed to prove anything.
Because it was home.
Dutch's FXR remained with the club.
It was ridden sparingly.
Maintained carefully.
Never turned into a museum piece.
Jim insisted on that.
“Dutch would haunt us if we made it furniture.”
Years later, on another memorial weekend, Leo stood beside the motorcycle again.
He was no longer the scrawny child hiding behind a push broom.
He was taller.
Still lean.
Arthur's old brown cap sat on his head.
He had found it in the storage locker after everything else was cataloged.
Jim hated the hat.
Which was why Leo wore it whenever Jim visited.
“You look ridiculous,” Jim said.
“My dad thought it was lucky.”
“Your dad was wrong about one thing.”
Leo laughed.
He crouched beside the FXR.
Jim watched.
“Something wrong?”
Leo listened.
Then shook his head.
“No.”
“You sure?”
Leo looked up.
“Don't rush me.”
Jim smiled.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Jim ran a hand across the old tank.
“Forty years.”
“More now.”
“Don't remind me.”
Leo checked a few things, then stood.
“She's good.”
Jim nodded.
“Your dad would be proud.”
Leo had heard that sentence many times.
For years, it hurt almost as much as it comforted.
Now it felt different.
He looked at the motorcycle.
“I used to think fixing this bike was the important part.”
“It was pretty important to me.”
“I know.”
Leo smiled.
“But that's not what I mean.”
Jim waited.
“The important part was finding out Dad left things behind.”
Jim nodded slowly.
“That's what people do.”
“Not just objects.”
“No.”
Leo looked toward Apex Iron Works.
Rusty was inside arguing with a supplier.
Pete had retired but still appeared every Thursday whether anyone wanted him there or not.
Big Dave had become service manager.
Tommy had opened his own small performance shop thirty miles away but returned for every memorial.
Leo's mother occasionally brought food, still suspicious that mechanics would otherwise live entirely on coffee.
Arthur Hayes had been dead for years.
Dutch Sullivan too.
Yet both men continued influencing decisions in a garage on the edge of Oakland.
Through habits.
Stories.
Techniques.
Warnings.
Jokes.
Standards.
Memory.
Jim looked at Leo.
“Your father ever tell you why Dutch trusted him so much?”
Leo shook his head.
Jim smiled.
“Because Arty wasn't impressed by him.”