It's cold in here, the November chill seeping through the metal walls, but I don't bother turning on the heat.
I just flip on the work lights and stand there for a moment, looking at the bike I've been rebuilding for the past six months.
A 1972 Harley Shovelhead, all chrome and potential.
I found it rusting in a barn outside of Fairmont and paid the old farmer five hundred bucks to haul it away.
It's almost done now.
New engine. New pipes. Fresh paint in a deep midnight blue that Vanna picked out before everything went to hell.
I grab a wrench and get to work.
There's something meditative about working on bikes.
The focus required to tighten a bolt to the exact right torque.
The satisfaction of fitting pieces together, of taking something broken and making it whole again.
When I'm elbow-deep in an engine, I don't have to think about anything else.
The world shrinks down to metal and oil and the steady rhythm of my hands.
But tonight, even that isn't enough.
I keep seeing her face.
The way she looked when she walked through those doors—terrified and determined and so fucking fragile I was afraid she'd shatter before she made it to the other side.
The way she kissed me goodbye, her lips trembling against mine.
Wait for me?
Always.
I tighten a bolt too hard, and the wrench slips, scraping my knuckles against the engine block.
Blood wells up immediately, dark and warm, but I barely feel it.
The pain is nothing compared to the hollow ache in my chest.
Three days.
It's only been three days.
She has eleven weeks and four days left.
I don't know how I'm going to survive this.
The first week passes in a blur of sleepless nights and mechanical work.
I spend every waking hour in the garage, tearing apart engines and putting them back together.
The other brothers give me space, mostly.
They know better than to push when I'm like this—closed off and silent, a storm cloud in human form.
But they check on me anyway, in their own ways.
