Men moved instantly.
Silas looked at Toby again. “Pick up the rest of your things.”
Toby did not move. “Am I in trouble?”
Silas's expression changed by a fraction. “No.”
“Then where are we going?”
“To meet your mother.”
Toby's fear sharpened. “Why?”
Silas held up the lighter.
“Because if this belonged to the man I think it belonged to, your mother has been carrying a secret for fifteen years.”
Silas guided Toby through the steel door at the back of the Rusty Anchor and into the alley behind the building. The light outside was so bright after the smoky darkness that Toby squinted hard enough to make his eyes water. Heat rolled off the asphalt in transparent waves, carrying the smell of hot rubber, gasoline, and dry dust. Behind them, the bar remained sealed, every man inside waiting for an explanation none of them yet had.
A midnight-black Chevrolet Silverado sat beneath a patched sheet-metal awning. Silas opened the passenger door and waited while Toby climbed in. The seat was too high for him, and for one humiliating second he had to grab the door frame with both hands and pull himself up. Silas pretended not to notice.
Bones and the red-haired biker called Mickey came out moments later and mounted two Harleys parked beside the truck. Their engines erupted with a roar that seemed to shake the bolts in the awning. Toby tensed instinctively, but Silas only closed the driver's door, started the Silverado, and looked straight ahead.
“Seat belt,” he said.
Toby clicked it into place.
Silas set the silver lighter on the center console between them. He did not pocket it, did not claim it, and did not take his eyes off it for several seconds.
“Directions.”
Toby pointed toward the highway. “Back toward town. Then south on Franklin. We live near the dead end by the old packing plant.”
Silas pulled onto the road. Bones and Mickey followed close behind.
For the first mile, neither Silas nor Toby spoke. The truck's air conditioner blew so cold that goosebumps rose on Toby's forearms. He welcomed it. His whole body felt overheated from the walk, the bar, and the terror of not knowing what he had just uncovered.
Silas drove with both hands fixed on the steering wheel. His face looked carved rather than living. The silence between him and Toby did not feel empty. It felt crowded with questions.
“Tell me about him,” Silas finally said.
“Who?”
“Richard Harris.”
Toby looked down at his knees. “I do not remember him.”
“Anything your mother told you.”
“He fixed cars. Worked at different garages. She said he could hear what was wrong with an engine before anybody opened the hood.”
Silas's fingers tightened around the wheel.
Toby continued because he sensed somehow that every detail mattered. “He used to make breakfast on Sundays. Pancakes mostly. Mom said he burned the first batch every time because he got distracted.”
Silas almost smiled. It appeared only as a brief crack in the set of his mouth.
“Elias burned everything,” he said.
Toby turned toward him. “Elias?”
Silas did not answer immediately.
“Your father's name may not have always been Richard.”
Toby stared at him.
“That does not make sense.”
“I know.”
“Are you saying my mom lied?”
“I am saying I need to hear her explanation before I decide what I am saying.”
Toby folded his arms tightly. Adults had used phrases like that around him before: careful sentences that sounded reasonable while refusing to provide the thing he actually needed. Usually it meant the truth was worse than whatever they thought a child could handle.
Silas glanced over and read the anger in his face.
“You are allowed to be mad,” he said.