Page 216 of Bend

It isn’t the right answer, but there probably isn’t one.

The memorial doesn’t become a formal speech immediately, which I’m grateful for. People tell stories instead.

Sayshen tells everyone about Wolfe refusing GPS somewhere in California because he claimed he had “natural directional intuition,” then somehow getting them twenty miles farther away from where they were supposed to be.

Talon immediately interrupts to clarify that Wolfe absolutely did not have natural directional intuition.

Reign says Wolfe couldn’t find his own ass with both hands.

People laugh.

The sound comes naturally enough that it takes a second for everyone to realize they’re laughing at a funeral.

The room goes awkwardly quiet.

Andre notices.

“Oh, fuck off.”

Several people look at him.

He folds his arms and gestures toward Wolfe’s picture. “You’re all going to stand here pretending that bastard wasn’t funny because he died? He’d haunt every one of you just to be annoying.”

Wolfe’s mom lets out a watery laugh.

That breaks the tension.

Revel tells a story that starts questionably and gets progressively worse until he glances at Wolfe’s parents and stops mid-sentence.

His mom wipes beneath one eye. “Keep going.”

Revel looks genuinely alarmed. “With respect, ma’am, there are some things about your son I don’t think you want confirmed.”

“I raised him.”

He pauses.

“Fair.”

By the time he finishes, she’s laughing through tears.

That might be harder to watch than the crying.

Because Wolfe existed before all of us. Before the Speed Demons, before Tampa, before me. He was somebody’s little boy before he was the cocky idiot who called me waŋyéča and somehow convinced me that taking up space wasn’t something I needed to apologize for.

Andre eventually says a few words, but he keeps them simple.

He talks about Wolfe as a racer first because that’s Andre’s language. Talented, intuitive, stubborn enough to be infuriating and smart enough to know when to listen, even if he usually needed to complain first.

Then Andre looks toward the empty bay.

“He was one of mine,” he says, and his voice catches just enough that the entire garage goes silent. “And my riders will always mean more to me than some bike, or trophy on a wall.”

He doesn’t try to continue after that.

Nobody needs him to.

By the time the memorial starts winding down, the sun is lower and the garage has emptied enough that the silence between conversations feels larger. Wolfe’s mom finds me near the wall before she leaves.