The photograph was old, sepia-toned with faded, scalloped edges from the 1960s. Pictured on the paper was a young, handsome man with an easy smile, resting casually on the seat of an immaculate vintage 1948 Indian Chief motorcycle out on an open prairie road.
The motorcycle was distinctive—custom-built exhaust, an unmistakable painted insignia of a roaring tiger on the tank, and a notched front fender. But it wasn't just the machine that made the hair on Brock’s arms stand straight up.
The young man in the photograph had Brock’s exact eyes, the same heavy jawline, and the very same jagged, cowlicked hairline.
Brock’s knuckles turned white around the stack of pictures. His heart hammered violently against his ribs as a flood of half-remembered stories, bitter family arguments, and childhood questions surged through his mind.