During that time, Hunter’s father taught him that whatever the sickness, whatever the odds, one could still offer compassion, hold on to hope. Don’t give up. Being positive offered good energy. Your grandfather’s tough. Served in two separate wars. Saw and did more than either of us could imagine or endure.

Taking in the flat, open expanse of pavement, Hunter realized that even though his father hadn’t spent every day with him, he made the most of the time they did have. It was quality, not quantity. Hank had instilled morals and values within him—the pillars that formed who he was today.

Still, Hunter wondered about the times his father had been away. Was he really working? Was he traveling? Where was he? What was he really up to? When Hank was around, he was good to Hunter. A big Eastwood fan. Loved his films. Taking Hunter to the Dirty Harry films. The spaghetti Westerns at the dollar cinema. Seeing all these Wild West landscapes now reminded Hunter of High Plains Drifter. The Outlaw Josey Wales. A Fistful of Dollars.

Signs for Abilene, Kansas, came breezing by. Throttling down, they passed through the town. Pieces of fact entered Hunter’s mind. Traveling through part of the Louisiana Purchase, the thirty-fourth state. “City of the Plains,” they called it. They cruised past the Alamo Saloon—gray wood framed in dingy white, with a front porch, red wagon wheels. They passed the Heritage Center, the Brookville Hotel, Rittles Western Wear with a huge spur outside the building. Amanda’s Bakery and Bistro invited them with tantalizing smells, but everyone wanted a beer and some bar food—something off the roadside. Maybe shoot some pool, toss some darts. Unwind.

Taking Old US 40 outside Abilene, they come up on Midway Bar and Grill and pull off into the gravel parking lot that spreads out like a dusty reserve of unknown histories. The bar looks more like a late-1950s California ranch home crossed with a pole barn. Vinyl siding on concrete, with a wooden picket fence around back. Turning their engines off, they dismount in front of a sign that reads Welcome, Bikers.

Unbuckling their helmets. Boots crunching over gravel, they enter like cowboys in off the trail. Stepping onto the concrete floor, they breathe in the welcoming aromas of fried cheeseburgers, chicken, and fries. Behind the bar, beneath the red glass lighting fixtures, limps a guy in his midthirties—Ho Chi Minh beard stringing down to his sternum, faded tats, and flabby arms that still have the look of strength. He wears a Gojira T-shirt.

“Welcome to Midway Bar. Name’s Al. What can I get you fellas this evening?”