Frank looked toward the road.
"Four states."
"Some came a long way."
"Six hours for one group."
Cole shook his head.
"Some of those clubs hate each other."
"Yep."
"But not that night."
"Nope."
Cole drank.
"All because of a seven-year-old girl."
Frank looked at Harper across the park.
"All because a seven-year-old girl trusted the right man."
Cole lowered the bottle.
For several seconds he said nothing.
Then he spoke.
"I kept thinking about Emma."
Frank remained beside him.
Cole looked toward the mountains.
Their outlines were becoming purple beneath the setting sun.
"When Harper grabbed my vest, I felt Emma's hand."
Frank listened.
"Just for a second."
Cole swallowed.
"It was stupid."
"No."
"I knew it wasn't her."
"Of course."
"But it felt like her."
Frank said nothing.
Cole continued.
"I spent five years thinking about what I missed."
The words came slowly.
"Every headache."
"Every time she said she was tired."
"Every time I told her she'd be okay."
Frank remained quiet.
"I rode because I didn't know what else to do."
Cole looked at his motorcycle.
"I told myself I liked the road."
"You do."
"Yeah."
Cole gave a small laugh.
"But that wasn't the whole reason."
"No."
"I was running."
Frank nodded.
Cole looked across the park again.
Harper and Lily were walking together.
Their hands were linked.
"I keep wondering if all those miles were leading me somewhere."
Frank finally spoke.
"Careful."
Cole looked at him.
"Don't turn Emma dying into something that had to happen."
Cole's face tightened.
Frank continued.
"It didn't."
Cole lowered his eyes.
"Some things are just terrible."
Frank paused.
"But terrible things don't get to decide what you do afterward."
Cole looked at him.
"Maybe the road didn't lead you to Harper."
Frank touched the motorcycle seat.
"Maybe you did."
Cole breathed slowly.
"Maybe."
Frank placed one hand on his shoulder.
One squeeze.
Firm.
Brief.
Enough.
Cole put on his helmet.
He swung onto the Harley.
The engine came alive beneath him.
For years, that sound had meant escape.
Apartment.
Memories.
Hospital rooms.
Regret.
Silence.
He had ridden to get away.
That evening, as he pulled onto Route 42, the engine sounded different.
Not because the motorcycle had changed.
Because he had.
The road stretched ahead.
Warm evening wind pressed against his arms.