The bell above the Copperhead Diner door gave a tired jingle as Arthur Pendleton stepped out of the Nevada heat.
At seventy, Arthur had learned to measure every journey in places where he could sit down.
His left leg, permanently weakened by an old industrial injury, was locked inside a metal brace. A polished wooden cane supported most of his weight, while a battered leather satchel hung from his other hand.
The diner was packed.
Truckers filled the counter. Families occupied every booth. Tourists escaping the desert heat crowded the entrance.
The hostess shook her head apologetically.
“I’m sorry, sir. We’re completely full. It could be forty minutes.”
Arthur glanced down at his shaking leg.
“I don’t have forty minutes.”
His eyes moved across the room until they stopped at the largest booth in the corner.
Three seats were empty.
One man occupied the fourth.
Arthur knew immediately that every person in the diner was watching him.
The man was enormous.
His leather vest carried the winged skull patch of the Hells Angels. His arms were covered in old tattoos. A scar cut through his beard, and his expression warned everyone to stay away.
Arthur tightened his grip on his cane.
Then he walked toward him.
The room grew quieter with every step.
The biker finally looked up.
“What do you want, old man?”
Arthur swallowed.
“My leg is about to give out. There aren’t any other seats.”
He pointed toward the empty side of the booth.
“Would you mind if I sat with you?”
For several seconds, the biker said nothing.
Then he moved his jacket from the seat.
“Sit.”
Arthur released a breath he had been holding.
“Thank you.”
He lowered himself into the booth with great difficulty.
The biker returned to his breakfast.
For several minutes, neither man spoke.
Then Arthur’s satchel slipped from the seat.
It struck the floor.
The old clasp snapped.
Letters, photographs, and a silver pocket watch scattered beneath the table.
The biker leaned down to help.
His hand stopped over one photograph.
Two young men stood in front of an enormous steel furnace.
One was Arthur, decades younger.
The other man had a crooked nose, thick mustache, and a small rattlesnake tattoo on his forearm.
The biker went completely still.
He looked at Arthur.
Then back at the photograph.
“Where did you get this?”
Arthur’s face changed.
He studied the biker’s eyes.
The shape of his jaw.