If I flip the desk, I prove him right.
If I yell, I prove him right.
“Fuck this.”
I tear the paper in half before I can stop myself, the exact second I know I’ve crossed the line.
He just writes something down.
“You may leave.”
Dismissed. Like I was never anything but a problem.
The hallway hits all at once, too loud, too bright, and I don’t stop walking.
I don’t think.
I just move.
The engine of my dirt bike roars to life beneath me, loud and real, and the noise in my head finally starts to clear. Wind cuts across my face, cold and sharp, pulling everything else away until it’s just me, the bike, and the road.
This is the only place it makes sense.
I slow near the old bike shop, the engine dropping to a low, steady hum, and that’s when I see them.
Four Harleys.
Black. Heavy. Alive in a way mine isn’t.
Michael’s Legion.
My dad always said to stay away. Said they were trouble.
My body tenses.
I don’t leave.
“You dreaming, kid?” one of them calls out.
I shrug, trying to play it off even though something in my chest is still humming. “Something like that.”
He watches me for a second longer, then nods toward a rusted-out bike.
“Think you can fix it?”
I don’t answer.
I just move.
Kneel.
Hands on metal, grease, something familiar settling into place as everything else fades out.
This part is easy.
A few adjustments, a couple of turns.
The engine coughs, then roars back to life.
