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“Wow,” Clara says.

I run my hand over the tank.

My father taught me to ride on this bike.

Against my mother’s wishes.

I was twelve.

He put me in front of him, wrapped my hands around the bars and told me to stop being afraid of the machine.

By fourteen, I could tear apart a carburetor.

At sixteen, Dad and I rebuilt half this engine together.

At eighteen, he couldn’t look at me.

After that, I stopped coming here.

“He left this specifically to you?” Clara asks.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

I laugh without humor. “Fuck if I know.”

I crouch beside the bike and inspect it.

Clara wanders around the garage.

There are old tools on pegboard. Fishing rods. Rusted gas cans.

Then she stops.

I know what she found before I turn around.

A photograph is pinned beside the workbench.

Dad.

Me.

Cole.

My brother has one arm around my neck and he’s giving the camera the finger.

Seventeen forever.

Clara reaches toward the picture but doesn’t touch it.

“Is that him?”

“Yeah.”

“You look alike.”

“People said that.”