Curtis, Dog now, I guess, holds up a vest. It’s black leather, worn already, like it’s got history even though it was sewn up two days ago. He hands it to Dad like it’s a sword or a crown. The men go quiet.
Dad clears his throat. “This ain’t a cut. It’s a damn oath.” He turns slowly, looking at each of them. His voice is steady but heavy, like it’s carrying bricks. “You put this on; you bleed for the man beside you. You fight. You bury. You don’t run. Not from the law, not from the reaper, not from each other.”
Saint nods. Bookie wipes his eyes like there’s dust in them. Dog smiles that crooked smile of his and mutters, “Let’s get on with it already.”
One by one, they take their cuts. Dad takes his last. He holds the vest in both hands, presses it to his chest like a prayer, then shrugs it on. The patch on the back is fresh, stitched by my mom’s hands the night before. She didn’t cry, but she didn’t sleep either.
They’ve been fighting a lot since Dad came back from serving in the Marines. She cries and tells him he isn’t here, but over there. He stays silent with a faraway look in his eyes. They don’t think I can hear them each night, but I do. Dad never hits her or yells back as she screams at him, he just sits quietly and stares out into the distance, like he isn’t here anymore. I think a piece of him didn’t come home when he did.
When Dad turns to face the other men, they raise their bottles and holler so loud that it rattles the tools on the pegboard.
“To the Saints!”
“To the hell with everything else!”
I want to shout too, but the sound gets stuck in my throat. Pride fills my chest, hot and heavy, but the words still won’t come.
That night, Mom tucks me in slowly, like she’s trying to memorize my face. She brushes hair from my forehead and kisses my temple. “You’re getting too big,” She whispers.
“Did you see the patch?” I ask. “It’s real now.”
Her eyes move toward the window. The rumble of bikes is still going outside, like thunder rolling in the distance.
“I saw,” she says, but her smile doesn’t reach her eyes.
I almost ask if she’s proud, but I don’t. Something in my gut tells me not to.
I wake up the next morning, slip downstairs to see if Mom has breakfast for me, but she’s gone. No goodbye. No note. Just her perfume clinging to the walls of our house, and a photo left face down on the kitchen table. It’s me, her, and dad, back when his eyes still laughed sometimes. Back before he left a piece of himself over there.
Dad doesn’t say a word when he gets up. He pours himself a cup of black coffee and sips it like it burns.
“Too many ghosts,” he whispers with that faraway look in his eyes.
I pretend not to hear, but I do. I hear everything now.
Later that night, I sneak into the garage. The patches are still laid out on the workbench. I touch one, just a fingertip, then pull back like it might bite.
One day, I’ll wear mine. Not because I have to, but because I want to. This is the only place where ghosts don’t win because in this leather, the ghosts don’t win. Not anymore.
Years Later
The needle bites into the leather with a sound no louder thanbreath. In and out. Tight, precise, just like she taught me.
My name, Isaiah, stitches clean along the inside lining of my cut. Not on the outside. Not for anyone else. Just for me. So, when I wear it, I feel the thread like a pulse.
The same way she used to sew patches late at night, hands trembling but steady. The same way I watched from the steps, ten years old and hungry for belonging.
This isn’t just a cut, it’s a promise. A memory. A legacy.
A patch in blood.
FIVE
LAW AND LOYALTY
ISAIAH 15 YEARS OLD
The garage still smells like sweat and oil, same as always. But now there’s blood in the cracks, too. Dried, scraped into the concrete like it belongs here. Like it always has.
