Months later, criminal charges would follow.
For Leo, none of that mattered as much as one simple fact.
Hank could not take him back.
Leo moved into a supervised transitional apartment in Phoenix.
The building was plain.
Four bedrooms.
Shared kitchen.
Resident counselor.
Small courtyard.
His room contained a bed, desk, dresser, and locking door.
The first night, Leo slept on the floor.
The bed felt wrong.
Too soft.
Too exposed.
He placed his backpack beside the window.
Shoes pointed toward the door.
At 1:00 a.m., he woke.
Checked the lock.
At 2:30, checked again.
At 4:00, finally slept.
The next morning, nobody punished him for oversleeping.
That frightened him more than punishment would have.
Three days later, Sully arrived.
He did not come on the Road King.
He came in a pickup towing it.
Leo walked outside.
“You broke it again?”
Sully looked offended.
“Temporary repair failed.”
“I told you.”
“Repeatedly.”
“You rode too hard.”
“Possibly.”
“Definitely.”
Sully pointed toward the passenger door.
“Get in.”
Leo looked toward the resident counselor.
“You asked?”
Sully sighed dramatically.
“Yes.”
“Angela?”
“Yes.”
“Paperwork?”
“Kid.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
Leo smiled.
“Good.”
They drove through industrial Phoenix.
Eventually Sully turned into a motorcycle repair shop called Desert Iron Works.
Five service bays.
Machine room.
Parts counter.
Old photographs covering one wall.
A gray-haired mechanic stepped from beneath a lifted touring bike.