“Not worth the rebuild cost.”
“Let it rest.”
The bikers had listened quietly.
Then they loaded it back up and brought it here.
Walt circled the motorcycle slowly, boots crunching against the gravel floor inside the garage. He didn’t rush. He never rushed judgment. His eyes traced every weld, every fracture line in the rust, every scar that hinted at the life this machine once lived.
When he finally spoke, his voice carried the weight of experience.
“She’s not just tired,” Walt said softly. “She’s exhausted.”
The broad-shouldered biker nodded once.
“You know what she is,” he replied.
Walt did.
Continue on the next page:
