He moved south.
Sometimes he walked.
Sometimes drivers gave him rides.
Once he hid in the back of a produce truck for thirty miles.
By the time he reached the Kingman area, he had twenty-one dollars left and feet covered in blisters.
He found the abandoned station almost by accident.
A collapsed sign leaned toward the highway.
Behind it, the garage offered shade.
Then he found the scrap.
That changed everything.
Machines gave him something fear could not occupy.
He spent his first day freeing the jaws of a rusted vise.
On the second, he rebuilt a bicycle wheel from two damaged wheels.
On the fourth, he found a functioning hand pump.
On the fifth, he repaired the latch on the office door so the desert wind stopped slamming it at night.
Every small repair reminded him that broken did not mean finished.
Now, twenty-one days after leaving Flagstaff, Leo listened as the dying motorcycle grew louder.
The machine appeared around the bend at last.
A black Harley-Davidson Road King.
The rider fought to keep it upright while the engine protested beneath him.
Black smoke trailed briefly from the exhaust.
Something metallic scraped.
The man guided the motorcycle toward the gravel shoulder and finally stopped twenty yards from the abandoned station.
The engine died with one final violent cough.
Silence returned.
Leo moved carefully toward the broken window.
The rider swung one enormous boot onto the pavement.
Leo immediately noticed the vest.
Leather.
Weathered.
Covered in patches.
Across the back sat the red-and-white winged skull Leo recognized even though he had never met anyone wearing one before.
Hells Angels.
Leo instinctively lowered himself below the window.
He had heard stories.
Everybody had.
Men who lived by rules outsiders did not understand.
Men people avoided in bars.
Men police watched closely.
Men Leo absolutely did not need involved in his life.
Outside, the rider removed his helmet.
He was huge.
At least six-foot-four, maybe taller.
Gray threaded through his beard.
One cheek carried an old scar.
Another narrow scar crossed his eyebrow.
His leather jacket had been torn near the shoulder, and blood had darkened the fabric beneath it.
Leo frowned.
The man had crashed.
Or someone had forced him off the road.
The biker opened a saddlebag, then seemed to remember something and cursed.
One saddlebag was missing entirely.
The mounting hardware had been torn away.
He crouched beside the motorcycle.
Leo watched him inspect the damage.