Slowly, Brock raised his head. His eyes, wide with disbelief and shock, locked onto the trembling elderly man leaning against the booth.
"Where did you get this?" Brock asked, his voice trembling beneath the gravel, barely louder than a stunned rasp.
The old man stared at the photograph in Brock's tattooed hands. He swallowed hard, his pale, wrinkled face twitching with an emotion too profound for words. He slowly raised his gaze, looking straight into Brock’s eyes, seeing through the thick beard, the scars, and the leather vest to the boy he had spent three decades trying to find.
"That's my motorcycle," the old man whispered, his blue eyes welling with sudden tears. "And that was taken... the summer before you were born, son."