The motorcycle didn’t show up at midnight that night.
It came at seven.
The sound rolled down Ridgeway Lane in a low, familiar growl that rattled the windows just enough to make the glasses in our kitchen cabinet hum. I was halfway through algebra homework at the dining table when it happened.
Dad froze.
His red pen hovered over a stack of discipline reports from school, suspended in midair. Then, without saying a word, he stood and walked to the front window.
He pulled back the cream-colored curtain with two fingers.
Outside, the fading evening light caught the black shape of Zane’s bike easing into the driveway next door.
Dad sighed through his nose.
“That Holloway kid.”
I kept my eyes on my notebook even though I’d stopped reading the equation thirty seconds ago.
“He’s becomin
