BURN IT. BURN IT. FIRE.
Ethan pulled his silver Zippo lighter from his pocket. He flipped it open with a satisfying clink. "If we hit thirty thousand viewers in the next sixty seconds, this baby goes up in flames."
"No," a voice said.
Everyone stopped. Ethan looked up.
Noah had stepped away from his camera tripod. He walked directly between Ethan, the gas can, and the motorcycle. He planted his feet.
"Just give me two minutes," Noah said, his voice stripped of its usual mildness. It was hard, like iron. "That's all I'm asking. Let me check the saddlebags first. If there's nothing in there, fine. Burn whatever you want. But not until I've looked."
Ethan hesitated. He felt the eyes of thirty thousand people on him, but he also felt Noah's stare, which was suddenly much heavier.
"Chat's waiting, man," Brandon argued, stepping forward. "You want to lose our momentum arguing about rusted spark plugs?"
"It's not about spark plugs," Noah shot back. "It's about basic decency. You don't burn something before you know what it is."
"It's an old motorcycle, Noah," Ethan reasoned, though his voice wavered. "It's not a person."
"No," Noah said softly. "But it might have belonged to one who mattered."
The silence in the gravel lot was deafening. The only sound was the hot wind pushing dust against their shoes. Finally, Brandon threw his hands up in the air, rolling his eyes dramatically for the camera.
"Fine. Check your bags. Two minutes. Clock's running."
Noah didn't wait to be told twice. He knelt in the gravel beside the bike's rear wheel and unbuckled the thick, cracked leather flap of the left saddlebag. His hands moved carefully, almost reverently.
The first thing he pulled out was a small, velvet box. The corners were worn pale from being handled a thousand times.
Noah opened it. Pinned against faded purple fabric was a medal—a heart-shaped piece of gold-edged metal with the profile of George Washington stamped into the center.
Noah went very still. He stopped breathing.
"What is it?" Ethan asked, lowering his lighter. He stepped closer, the YouTuber persona slipping away.
"It's a Purple Heart," Noah said. His voice was no longer a cameraman's voice; it was fragile, trembling slightly. "This isn't a prop, Ethan. You don't buy these in a pawn shop. You earn these getting your body torn apart defending your country."
The crowd of onlookers murmured, taking off their hats. Brandon lowered the gas can.
"Keep going," Ethan whispered.
Noah reached back into the leather bag. He pulled out a bundle of photographs bound by a rubber band that snapped as soon as he touched it. He laid the photos on the motorcycle's leather seat.
The first was a Polaroid: a young, muscular man in muddy combat fatigues, standing in a jungle, holding a rifle. His eyes looked a thousand miles away. The year 1971 was written in the margin.