After giving his time to Uncle Sam, he came back to what he loved. Not the Indianapolis airport. Motorcycles. He told his father he was moving, and took a job at a small Harley dealership in North Carolina. Discovered he could make more on his own, so he began repairing motorcycles out of his garage. He started building them and riding more and more as he piled up more and more of the legal tender. Years passed and word of mouth traveled, and Ox offered him a job. He could do his own thing for more money, with wider recognition, more eyes seeing his work.

Working there for a decade or better, Hunter had come to discover that Ox was a hothead with a thriving business. He let notoriety flood his brain and fatten his ego. It turned out that the more money he made, the more he turned into a self-centered jackass that shat on everyone and everything. He started to take others and their talents for granted, talking down and threatening everyone behind the scenes, never cutting any slack.

Add to that “animal abuser.” Hunter always had a deep affinity for animals, especially hound dogs. Back in Indiana, when he was a kid, his father was always on the road, rolling in late on Saturday or Sunday, road worn and beat, then back on the road by Monday. Hunter spent many summers with his grandfather, who bred, raised, and hunted coonhounds.

Wanting to head home, he gathers his tools. His knuckles are scraped, wet with his and Ox’s blood. Walking to his area, rattling the steel tool chest as he locks up all sixteen drawers, he stands like a specimen: round shoulders, wide back, tattoos etched up and down his athletic arms (his favorite being the rabbit on his right inner arm—an homage to his grandfather and the beagles they hunted rabbits with), muscles flexing as he wheels the black tool chest over the cold concrete floor, from the garage and out across the parking lot to his truck. Ruby colors the passenger’s-side glass with her nose butter.

Lowering the tailgate, Hunter turns back to the garage’s open bay door and yells, “Slade?”

Coming from the garage opening. Pulling a red rag from his hip pocket, he wipes something from his silver-ringed fingers, walks toward Hunter, and says, “You fucked him up good, brother.”

“Why I’m leaving on my own terms, or it’ll be Johnny Law taking me in on his.”

“Guess you need a hand?”

Hunter tells him, “It’d be appreciated.”

Stuffing the rag back into his pocket, Slade tells Hunter, “No problem. I got no beefs with you. Always had mad respect for you. Serving in Iraq. And you’re a damn good mechanic. Just can’t believe you’re done.” He bends down to grab the tool chest and brace it from the bottom.