The little girl had been watching Frank Mercer’s leather vest for almost five straight minutes before he finally realized it.
At first, Frank thought she was interested in the motorcycles lined up outside the diner. Children often stared at them. His black touring bike was parked beside three others in the bright Missouri sunshine, and every time another vehicle moved along the highway, the chrome caught the light and flashed through the diner windows.
But the child was not watching the motorcycles.
She was watching Frank.
More exactly, she could not take her eyes off the small, weathered patch stitched above the left side of his vest.
Frank looked down.
The patch was older than many of the customers eating breakfast around him. Long ago, the fabric had been dark blue. Years of sunlight, dust, rain, and countless miles had faded it nearly gray. At its center sat a white compass rose crossed by one narrow red line.
Around the edge were five words.
HOME IS THE ROAD BACK.
Only twelve men had ever been given one of those patches.
Frank had known every one of them.
At least, that was what he had believed for more than four decades.
The girl slipped out of the booth where she had been sitting with her family.
Her mother immediately reached after her.
“Ellie, honey, don’t bother him.”
But Ellie was already walking across the diner.
Frank lowered his coffee cup to the table.
The child stopped beside him.
She looked about eight years old. Brown hair was tied into a slightly messy ponytail, and a few freckles were scattered across her nose. She did not seem afraid of him, even with the old leather vest and the gray beard.
Her face showed only curiosity.
Then she lifted one finger and pointed straight at the patch.
“My grandpa has one exactly like that.”
Frank smiled without thinking.
“A lot of old motorcycle patches look similar, kiddo.”
Ellie immediately shook her head.
“No. Exactly like that.”
Something about the confidence in her voice made Frank’s smile fade slightly.
He leaned farther back in his chair.
“Your grandpa still rides?”
“Not anymore.”
“What kind of motorcycle did he have?”
“I don’t know.”
Frank touched the edge of the faded patch.
“You’re sure you’ve seen this one?”
Ellie looked almost insulted that he doubted her.
“Yes.”
Then she glanced toward her family and lowered her voice.
“He keeps it locked inside a wooden box under his bed.”
Frank stopped moving.
Across the table, Ray noticed immediately.
Ray had been cutting into his eggs. His fork froze halfway between the plate and his mouth.
Frank studied the girl more carefully.
“What does the box look like?”
“Brown. It has a little brass lock.”
“Did your grandpa show you what was inside?”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“I saw it once when he forgot to close it.”
A cold feeling passed through Frank.
His thumb rubbed slowly across the edge of his own patch.
There were old motorcycle patches that anyone could buy.
There were patches that could be copied.
This one was different.
The twelve originals had been handmade in 1978 by the wife of one of their riders. Each one contained a tiny stitching error that made it unique. Frank’s had one extra stitch on the eastern point of the compass.
No official copies had ever existed.
Frank leaned toward Ellie.
“What’s your grandfather’s name?”
The girl smiled.
“Samuel Carter.”
The world seemed to stop.
The sound of the diner faded.
Someone laughed near the counter.
A waitress poured coffee into another customer’s cup.
Plates and silverware clattered.
Yet Frank barely heard any of it.
Ray slowly lowered his fork.
“Frank?”
Frank did not look at him.
His eyes stayed on Ellie.
“Say his name again.”
“Samuel Carter.”
Frank’s hand tightened around his mug.
He had not heard that name spoken so casually in forty-three years.
Samuel Carter had been one of the original twelve riders.
And Samuel Carter had died in 1981.
That was what Frank had believed since he was twenty-seven.
His eyes moved toward Ellie’s family.
At the booth near the window sat an elderly man whose back was partly turned to them.
Silver hair.
Narrow shoulders.
One hand around a coffee mug.
Frank could not yet see his face clearly.
Beside the man sat an older woman and Ellie’s mother.
Frank swallowed.
“Is that your grandpa?”
Ellie nodded.
Frank did not move.
Ray whispered, “No way.”
Ellie looked between the two men.
“Do you know him?”
Frank continued staring toward the booth.
“I used to.”
The elderly man seemed to feel someone watching him.
Very slowly, he turned his head.
Frank forgot to breathe.
The face was much thinner than he remembered.
Age had cut deep lines around the eyes and mouth.
The thick dark hair was gone.
But the eyes had not changed.
Pale gray.
Sharp.
Impossible to mistake.
The old man’s coffee cup stopped in midair.
For several long seconds, he and Frank simply stared at one another.
Then the man whispered,
“Frank.”
Ray shot to his feet so quickly that his chair scraped loudly over the diner floor.
Ellie jumped.
Her mother stood at once.
Frank remained seated.
Not because he was calm.
Because his legs seemed to have forgotten how to hold him.
Samuel Carter lowered his coffee cup carefully to the table.
The older woman beside him touched his wrist.
“Sam?”
He did not respond.
He was still looking directly at Frank.
Frank forced himself to stand.
His voice sounded rough and unfamiliar.
“You’re alive.”
Something moved across Samuel’s face.
It was not happiness.
Not surprise.
It was pain.
Old, exhausted pain.
“Yes.”
Ray came around the table.
“You’re alive?”
Samuel looked toward him too.
“Hello, Ray.”
Ray’s face became hard.
“You don’t get to say hello.”
Samuel’s daughter stepped closer to her own child.
“Dad, who are these men?”
Samuel shut his eyes for a brief moment.
When he opened them again, he seemed to have aged another ten years.
“People I should have talked to a very long time ago.”
Frank stepped forward.
“You let us bury you.”
The diner had become noticeably quieter.