"Then we get somebody qualified to talk to him. Not just us." Sully rubbed his eyes with his uninjured hand. "First, we make sure I know where he is when we come back."
The Hells Angels ride that would eventually cross the desert had already been planned for that week. Members from regional charters were gathering for a memorial ride and a meeting about trouble on the highways between Arizona and Nevada. The men who had forced Sully from the road were part of a rival group, and Sully's injuries became one more reason for the riders to travel together rather than separately. His story about Leo spread through the gathering, changing slightly in every telling, until a teenager with a box of scrap metal had become a mechanical wizard who had rebuilt an entire Harley in the dark.
Sully corrected the story whenever he heard it. "He didn't rebuild anything," he said. "He knew what was safe enough for a short move and what needed real work. That's why I'm standing here instead of breaking down again ten miles out." Men who knew nothing about Leo nodded as if they had always appreciated that distinction.
A few laughed and asked whether the boy wanted a job. Sully did not laugh with them, because he kept remembering the way Leo had said that the person looking for him was supposed to take care of him.
Three days passed for Leo in the abandoned station. On the first day he explored an old storage room, found a length of chain useful for the broken bicycle, and convinced himself that he had enough food to last until he could ride into town. On the second day, the temperature rose high enough that the corrugated roof seemed to radiate heat even after sunset. He wrapped his father's photograph in a clean rag, drank carefully, and kept the Zippo in his pocket as if it could somehow prove the repair had happened. By the third morning, he knew he could not stay much longer.
The bicycle was close to functional but still unreliable. One tire needed replacing, the handlebars were crooked, and every test ride revealed another sound Leo didn't like. He could make it move, but he didn't trust it to survive a long ride along a road without shade. At sunrise he walked toward an old creek bed, hoping to find a cooler place where he could wait out the heat and think. He carried the last of his water in a canteen that felt disturbingly light.
He had almost reached the dry channel when he heard an engine from the east. At first he expected another traveler, and the hope of asking for water rose before he could stop it. Then he saw the white SUV and the silver pickup traveling together. The pickup was a Dodge Ram with a dent near the rear wheel and a faded decal on the back window. Leo recognized both details from the driveway in Flagstaff.