Almost forty years ago.
Mason ended the call less than two minutes later.
Caleb had already disappeared through the hospital doors.
Bear approached him.
“What was that about?”
“Kid’s sister is upstairs.”
Bear looked toward the entrance.
“Family struggling?”
Mason nodded.
“Mom hasn’t eaten today. Kid tried selling the only toy he owns to buy her food.”
Bear’s expression hardened.
“Damn.”
Luis shoved both hands into his jacket pockets.
“What do they need?”
“Everything, probably.”
“You call the chapter?”
“Yeah.”
Bear grinned faintly.
“You told Tiny?”
“I told everybody.”
Luis laughed.
“Oh, hell. There’ll be fifty motorcycles here.”
“Good.”
Mason started toward his bike.
Bear caught his arm.
“Where are you going?”
Mason held up Scout.
“I need to check something.”
He opened the hard leather saddlebag attached to his Harley.
Inside were tools, rain gear, an emergency first-aid pack, registration papers, and a battered black notebook held together with an elastic band.
Mason pulled out the notebook.
Bear watched.
“What are you looking for?”
Mason didn’t answer.
He opened the back cover.
Behind it was an old photograph.
The picture had been folded twice.
The edges were nearly white from age.
Mason unfolded it carefully.
Two boys stood in front of a brick apartment building.
The taller boy was fourteen.
Skinny.
Long dark hair.
An angry expression already beginning to settle permanently into his face.
Mason.
Beside him stood a smaller child.
Eight years old.
Missing front tooth.
Oversized jacket.
Grinning at whoever held the camera.
And squeezed beneath the younger boy’s arm was a brown teddy bear.
Bear leaned closer.
“No way.”
Mason stared at the photograph.
The teddy bear’s right ear had been stitched on with red thread.
Three short stitches.
Two crossing diagonally.
Mason whispered a name he had not spoken aloud in years.
“Owen.”
Bear knew the story.
Most older Iron Harbor members did.
Mason’s mother had died when he was fourteen.
There had been no father.
No grandparents willing to take them.
He and his eight-year-old brother, Owen, had entered the county foster system.
Mason went to one house.
Owen went to another.
Mason ran away twice trying to find him.
After the second attempt, Owen was moved.
Months later, Mason received a letter saying his younger brother had been placed with a prospective adoptive family.
The adoption records were sealed.
Mason was still a minor.
Nobody told him where Owen went.
By the time Mason turned eighteen and started looking again, the trail had vanished.
He had searched for years.
County offices.
Old social workers.
Court records.
Private investigators when he could finally afford them.
Online databases once the internet made searching easier.
Nothing.
Eventually, life kept moving even though part of Mason never did.
Bear pointed at Scout.
“You think that’s the same bear?”
Mason looked from the photograph to the toy.
“I tore the ear when I was fourteen.”
Bear frowned.
“What?”
“Owen and I were fighting over it.”
Mason’s voice became distant.
“He said I couldn’t take it because Mom gave it to him. I pulled. He pulled. Ear ripped.”
Mason touched the red stitches.
“We didn’t have money for anything. I found thread in our foster mother’s sewing box and fixed it myself.”
Bear stared at him.
“You sure?”
Mason turned Scout’s ear over.
Then he saw it.
Beneath the seam.
Barely visible after decades of wear.
A tiny black ink mark.
M.R.
Mason Reed.
The initials he had written as a teenager so Owen would remember who had repaired it.
Mason’s throat closed.
Bear whispered, “Jesus.”
Luis stepped closer.
“What?”
Mason showed him the photograph.
Luis looked from the picture to Scout.
Then toward the hospital.
“That kid said his father died?”
Mason nodded.
“His last name is Carter.”
“Could’ve been adopted.”
Mason said nothing.
Bear asked quietly, “How old would Owen be now?”
“Forty-eight.”
“And Caleb’s dad?”
“I don’t know.”
“You planning to ask?”
Mason folded the photograph.
His hands were trembling.
“No.”
Bear frowned.
“No?”
“Not yet.”
“Why?”
Mason looked through the hospital windows toward the elevators.
“Because right now that kid has a sick sister, a hungry mother and twenty dollars.”
He slid the photograph into his vest.
“This is about them first.”
Then the distant sound of engines began.
On the seventh floor, Caleb was trying to quietly open a plastic container of macaroni and cheese without waking his sister.
His mother sat beside the hospital bed.
Hannah Carter was thirty-six, though the previous forty-eight hours had added a decade to her face.
Her auburn hair was tied into a loose knot.
She wore the same gray sweatshirt she had worn when the ambulance brought them in the night before.
“Where did you get that?” she whispered.
Caleb placed a wrapped turkey sandwich in her lap.
“Bought it.”
“With what?”
He paused.
Hannah looked at him.
“Caleb.”
He pulled twenty dollars from his pocket.
Her face changed.
“Where did that come from?”
Caleb looked at Scout.
Hannah followed his gaze.
Understanding arrived immediately.
“You sold him?”
Caleb nodded.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
“But I got him back.”
“What?”
“The man bought him and gave him back.”
Hannah stared.
“What man?”
“A biker.”
That was not the answer she wanted.
“A what?”
“He was nice.”
“Caleb, you went outside and talked to strangers?”
“I had to.”
“No, you absolutely did not have to.”
“You were hungry.”
Hannah closed her eyes.
“That doesn’t mean you go outside and sell things to strangers.”
“You said you weren’t hungry.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
“Caleb—”
“You get that shaky thing in your hands when you don’t eat.”
Hannah looked down.
Her hands were trembling.
She pressed them together.
Caleb pushed the sandwich closer.
“I know when you’re lying.”
Hannah’s anger disappeared.
She covered her mouth for a moment.
Then she pulled Caleb toward her.
He resisted.
Not because he didn’t want the hug.
Because he didn’t want to crush the macaroni.
Hannah laughed softly despite herself.
Then tears filled her eyes.
“You scared me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to take care of me.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No.”
“Dad said.”
Hannah froze.