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“I’m on security.”

“Lord help security.”

Sweet dries her hands and walks over with a folded stack of black towels. “Security for what?”

“Festival.”

“Is bobbing for bones dangerous?”

“Depends who provides the bones.”

Mercy points her clipboard at me. “Do not start.”

Sweet’s eyes brighten. “They’re not real bones, right?”

“This year?”

Mercy gives me a look that could embalm a living man.

Sweet laughs, and that sound bounces off coffin lids and stainless steel like it don’t know the building is full of things that stopped breathing.

“You’re not very reassuring,” she says.

“I ain’t trying to be.”

“I noticed.”

“You notice a lot.”

“That sounded like an accusation.”

“Might be.”

Her smile tips. “Then I’ll take it as a compliment.”

Mercy mutters, “You two are going to give me shingles.”

Before I can answer, the side door opens and Scarecrow wheels Raven in.

The room changes. Not with screaming or gasping. Just a soft shift, respectful and immediate, as Raven’s upright Harley display rolls into the workroom on the custom platform. Two brothers guide it from either side, moving slow. Raven still sits proud on the bike, sunglasses in place, cigarette between his lips, hands held steady around the grips.

Sweet’s laughter fades, but she doesn’t pale. Doesn’t look away. Doesn’t tuck herself behind Mercy.

She sets the towels down and folds her hands in front of her apron, respectful, curious, steady. Damn it.

Mercy turns all business. “Easy on the left. Watch his boot. Petal, cradle cover. Lark, hand support kit. Junie, jaw release in case that cigarette shifts. Sweet, stand with me. Don’t touch unless I tell you, but watch everything.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sweet says.

Mercy doesn’t correct the ma’am this time.

I stay near the wall, telling myself I’m watching the doors. I do watch them. Mostly. I also watch Sweet watch Mercy work.

The transfer is a strange kind of dance. Dead weight ain’t sleeping weight. Dead men don’t help. Dead hands don’t land pretty unless living hands put them there. Mercy’s team moves with a care that would surprise anyone who thinks bikers and the women around us are nothing but noise. They unfasten hidden supports, ease Raven from the Harley without making him look handled, keep his cut straight, and tuck his cigarette into a velvet tray like it’s holy.

Sweet’s face never twists.

When Raven’s ring catches on a glove and his hand shifts wrong, Sweet moves before Mercy speaks. She catches the heavy silver rings and supports his fingers so they don’t bend back.