“Roger that, brother,” Itch says.

“Don’t forget your roll and tent for camping.”

Hunter hears Itch’s and Nugget’s 1978 shovelhead Harleys roar to life, tear down Hunter’s drive, and burn through the valley, their straight pipes warning everyone on the country back road that they were coming through. Walking out of the garage, toward the house, the sun heating things up through the trees, Hunter recalls how he had saved his money working at a downtown gas station with a single-bay garage, a Union 76, pumping gas, fixing flats, replacing wipers and taillights, until he had enough money to buy that orange-and-black Buell S1. Proud was how he had felt. As his father had told him he would. You work and save, buy it on your own, you’ll appreciate it more. Had a V-twin four-stroke, pushrod-actuated overhead valve, self-adjusting hydraulic lifters with two valves per cylinder. Electric start. Five-speed. Kevlar belt. Rear suspension single shock, spring preload. Compression and preload damping. Top speed 128.9 miles per hour. Rode the tread right off the tires on that son of a bitch. Then his buddy Money Thompson got thrown in the can—pulled over one night after leaving the 76 station late. They had sat in the auto bay after closing. Shooting the shit and loading up the brass bat of Money’s one-hitter with some primo skunk bud. He always kept the wooden box under his driver’s seat. Had a burned-out taillight Hunter had offered to replace at the station. “Don’t worry about it,” Money had told him. “Another time.” Money was too stoned for his own good. Eyes frosted by glaze and burning red hot, he could hardly place one foot in front of the other. Should have listened. Next thing Hunter knows, he’s at home, crashed in his warm bed, when his phone is ringing with a collect call from the local hoosegow, wanting to know if he’ll accept the charges. Money got pulled over for the taillight. Was asked to step from the car when Barney Fife’s flashlight registered his heavy, filmed eyes. A quick search beneath the front seat was enough for a paraphernalia charge, and the diced-up green dope inside was another tiny charge for possession.

Money, untrue to his birth name, had none. Parents were deadbeats who would rather let him rot in jail than bail him out.

Go to Hunter hocking his Buell for bail money.

Go to Hunter never getting paid back by his buddy Money. It seemed the name was more aspirational than accurate—the fucker was always broke.

Go to Hunter never getting his bike back.