The first light of dawn slid across the desert, turning the sand a dull gold. The wind was dry and restless, whispering through broken fences and across the cracked two-lane highway that stretched toward the mountains like a faded scar.
Jake Morgan kicked his old Harley to life. The engine coughed, growled, then roared awake, echoing across the empty valley. It was the sound he loved most in the world — raw, honest, alive. Every vibration through the handlebars felt like a pulse under his palms, a reminder that some things in life still had a heartbeat.
He hadn’t planned this ride. He rarely planned anything anymore. Ever since Sam died, the world had felt smaller, heavier. Every road he took seemed to loop back to that night — the one that split his life clean in two.
He still remembered the sound of rain pounding on his helmet, the smell of oil and mud, the flash of headlights that came from nowhere. Then silence. Just silence, and Sam’s name screaming in his mind.
Now, three years later, Jake was still trying to outrun that silence.
He strapped on his helmet, the one with a faded skull decal Sam had painted himself. It was chipped around the edges, scratched from too many miles, but he couldn’t bring himself to replace it. Some things were meant to carry scars.
The highway yawned open before him. The sun had barely climbed over the horizon, but the air was already warm — the kind of morning that promised heat and ghosts. Jake twisted the throttle. The Harley leapt forward, tires gripping the asphalt like it remembered where it belonged.
For a moment, the wind filled his lungs and blew the weight off his chest. He smiled — not the happy kind, but the kind that keeps a man from breaking apart.
The Road and the Memories
Every rider knows there’s a rhythm to the road — a steady hum that matches the beat of your heart. Jake fell into it easily, leaning into the curves, the wind tugging at his jacket.
The desert rolled by in blurs of brown and gold. The smell of sage and dust filled the air. He passed an old sign half-buried in sand: Route 17 — Next Gas 45 Miles.
That used to make him nervous once. Now, he almost wished he’d run out. Being stuck out here with nothing but his thoughts didn’t sound so bad anymore.
The road brought back everything. He could almost hear Sam’s laugh over the engine, that low, easy sound that used to echo through their helmets when they rode side by side. Sam was always the loud one, the dreamer. Jake was the anchor, the one who worried about everything.
But that night — that one stormy night — Jake had let his guard down.
“Let’s take the mountain road,” Sam had said, grinning like a kid. “It’s faster, and I wanna feel the rain.”
Jake had laughed and followed.
Now, every time thunder rolled, he still heard his brother’s voice.
The Stop at Mile Marker 88
Around mid-morning, Jake pulled over by an old gas station that had seen better decades. The sign creaked in the wind. The glass door was cracked, and the vending machine outside was missing its front panel.
He killed the engine and sat there for a while, listening to it tick as it cooled. He pulled off his gloves, ran a hand through his hair, and just breathed.
Inside, the clerk looked up — an old man with tired eyes and a beard that could’ve told stories.
“Long ride?” he asked.
“Always is,” Jake replied.
“Where you headed?”
Jake thought about it. “Not sure yet.”
The old man nodded. “Best kind of ride, then.”
Jake smiled faintly and grabbed a bottle of water. As he turned to leave, the clerk said, “Be careful on that road. Lotta people don’t come back from it.”
Jake paused in the doorway, the bell above his head jangling softly. “Maybe that’s the point,” he said.
The clerk frowned but didn’t answer.
Jake walked out, the bottle cold in his hand. The horizon shimmered with heat. He took one long drink, then poured the rest out on the ground — a habit he’d picked up after Sam died. One for him. One for the road.
He kicked the bike back to life.
The Ghost in the Mirror
By late afternoon, the sun had turned harsh, painting everything in blinding white. The desert stretched endlessly, the kind of emptiness that makes a man’s thoughts louder.
Somewhere past the ridge, the road curved sharply. Jake slowed down, leaning just right, the wind slicing across his jacket. That’s when he saw it — a flash in his side mirror.
Another bike.
He blinked. No one had been behind him for miles. But there it was — black, low, and sleek. It followed at a distance, moving with the same rhythm, the same precision.
Jake frowned, twisted the throttle, and pulled ahead. The other bike stayed behind, never closer, never farther.
He didn’t know why, but something in him tightened. He looked again in the mirror — and for a split second, he swore he saw Sam’s old leather jacket.
He shook his head. Maybe the heat was getting to him. Maybe it was memory playing tricks again.
He kept riding. But every time he checked that mirror, the shadow stayed there — a silent companion in the distance.
The Night Comes Early
By the time Jake reached the mountain pass, the sun had dipped behind the peaks, turning the sky bruised purple. The air grew cooler, sharper. The smell of pine replaced the desert dust.
He stopped at a lookout point. From there, he could see the whole valley — a sea of gold fading into dusk. The bike that had been following him was gone.
Jake took off his helmet, ran a hand over his face. He sat on the edge of the guardrail, staring at the view.
He remembered when he and Sam had stopped here once. They’d been younger, reckless, laughing about how they’d never grow old. Sam had taken a picture of them — two silhouettes against the sunset, helmets tucked under their arms.
Jake still had that photo, folded and worn, tucked in his wallet. He pulled it out now, the edges yellowed from sweat and years.
“Guess I made it back,” he said softly. “You still out there, brother?”
The wind didn’t answer, but for a moment, he could’ve sworn he heard a faint rumble of another engine in the distance.
Leave a Reply