The second photo showed the same man, older now, with a thick beard and a leather vest, standing proudly beside this exact Harley-Davidson. The chrome was gleaming then. He had his arm around a beautiful woman who was laughing.
The third photo was recent. The man was old, his beard white, his skin pale. He was sitting on a hospital bed. Beside him was a young boy, maybe ten or eleven, in a wheelchair. The old man's weathered, tattooed hand was resting gently on the boy's shoulder. Both of them were smiling at the camera.
Noah reached into the bag one final time. He pulled out a leather patch—the winged death's head of the Hell's Angels. And tucked perfectly inside the folded patch was a sealed white envelope.
Across the front of the envelope, written in a shaky but deliberate hand in blue ink, were the words: For Leo. When you're ready to ride.
Noah didn't open it. He stood up and handed the envelope to Ethan.
"Read it," Noah instructed. He turned the camera, pointing the lens not at the rusted bike, but straight at Ethan's face.
Ethan's hands were shaking. He carefully slid his thumb under the flap and pulled out a piece of yellowed notebook paper. He cleared his throat, his eyes scanning the first few lines. He swallowed hard.
"Read it," Noah repeated.
Ethan looked into the camera. He didn't shout. He didn't ask for likes or subscriptions. He just read.
"Leo,
If you're reading this, my earthly ride is over. The doctors tell me my ticker is finally giving out, and frankly, I'm surprised it lasted this long. I spent my youth fighting in a jungle where I lost my best friends. I spent my adulthood riding with men who were as angry and broken as I was. I thought the world was just ugly.
But the last ten years? Driving down to the children's ward, organizing those charity toy runs for you kids at the hospital? That was the only time I ever really felt whole.
I know the wheelchair feels like a cage right now, kid. I know the doctors say the surgery might not work. But you're a fighter. I promised you I'd save this bike for you for when you get back on your feet. It's yours now. Everything I have left is yours.
Fix her up. Make her roar. And whatever happens... don't let the rust win.
Love, Mac."
Ethan stopped reading. A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the lot. The only sound was a grown man in the crowd trying to quietly clear his throat to hide a sob.
Ethan looked at the letter. He looked at the heavy, rusted iron of the Harley. Then, he looked down at the silver Zippo lighter still clutched in his left hand.
It suddenly felt like it was burning his skin. It felt like poison.
Brandon shifted uncomfortably. He looked at his iPad. "Ethan... the stream. People are dropping off. We're losing the hype."
Ethan slowly raised his head. He looked at Brandon, really looked at him, and for the first time, he saw how utterly empty their pursuit of views really was.
Ethan looked directly into the camera lens. The fake, energetic smile was gone.
"We're not burning the bike, chat," Ethan said, his voice echoing in the quiet gravel lot. He tossed the silver lighter into the dirt and ground it under his heel. "We're going to find Leo."