He handed it to me.
Bill of sale.
Vehicle information.
Marcus's signature.
Price:
$1.
I stared at it.
The date was nine days earlier.
Three days before Marcus died.
"This is fake."
"No, sir."
"This motorcycle is worth almost thirty thousand dollars."
"I know."
"Then why would Marcus give it to you?"
The biker looked away.
His name was Ray.
And the answer he gave me changed everything I thought I knew about my son's final months.
"Marcus knew he was sick."
I stopped breathing.
"What?"
Ray lowered his voice.
"He'd known for a while."
"No."
"He didn't tell you?"
I shook my head.
Anger disappeared.
Something worse replaced it.
Marcus had been having heart problems for months.
He'd undergone tests.
The doctors had warned him his condition was serious.
He'd kept it mostly private.
That sounded exactly like my son.
Stubborn.
Protective.
Always convinced he could carry everybody else's worries without letting anyone carry his.
"Why didn't he tell me?"
Ray shook his head.
"You'll have to forgive him for that yourself."
Then he explained the motorcycle.
Marcus didn't want Ray to keep it.
The one-dollar sale was simply part of an arrangement they'd documented so Ray could handle what Marcus wanted done with the bike if the worst happened.
"What did he want?"
Ray looked toward the Harley.
"Sell it."
"Why?"
"He wanted the money to go somewhere."
My throat tightened.
"Where?"
Ray pulled another envelope from his vest.
On the front, in Marcus's handwriting, were three words:
FOR THE BOYS.