“You fixed my way out.”
Leo looked toward him.
Sully’s voice lowered.
“Some people ran me off the road ten miles west of here. I don’t know whether they’re coming back.”
Leo had been right.
“You could’ve told me.”
“You helped anyway.”
“That doesn’t answer anything.”
Sully smiled faintly.
“Keep the lighter.”
Leo closed his fingers around it.
Sully put on his helmet.
“My name is Jack Sullivan.”
“You already told me.”
“I’m telling you so you remember.”
“Okay.”
“The club doesn’t forget debts.”
Leo almost laughed.
“I don’t need a debt.”
“Good.”
Sully started the Road King.
“Those are usually the ones worth paying.”
The bike rolled toward the garage opening.
Before leaving, Sully stopped.
“You sure you’re staying here?”
“For now.”
“You got water?”
“Yes.”
Leo lied.
Sully stared at him.
Leo stared back.
Finally, Sully nodded.
“Don’t trust that patch farther than you have to.”
Leo raised an eyebrow.
“I was about to tell you that.”
“Too slow.”
The Road King accelerated gently onto the highway.
Leo stood outside and watched until the taillight disappeared.
When the desert became silent again, he opened his hand.
The Zippo reflected the moonlight.
For the first time since leaving Flagstaff, Leo owned something that had been given to him because somebody believed he had earned it.
Not because he was a foster placement.
Not because someone felt sorry for him.
Because of something he could do.
He slept with the lighter in his pocket.
The first day after Sully left, Leo returned to the bicycle.
The front wheel came from a different bike.
The chain was stretched.
One brake barely worked.
The frame had rust around the bottom bracket.
It was terrible.
Leo loved it.
If he could get the bicycle reliable enough, he could ride closer to Kingman.
Find work.
Maybe a repair shop would let him sweep floors.