Highway 49 was quiet in the late afternoon, the kind of quiet that settles in just before sunset. The sky glowed amber, stretching wide above the long stretch of road that Robert McAllister had traveled more times than he could count. The steady hum of his motorcycle had always been his comfort, a familiar rhythm that helped him keep moving forwa
rd when the past threatened to pull him back.
Then the flashing lights appeared in his rearview mirror.
Red and blue. Sharp. Unavoidable.
Robert eased the bike onto the shoulder and cut the engine. He sighed, already guessing the reason. His taillight had been acting up again. He had meant to fix it that morning but lost track of time, as he often did. Some habits came with age. Others came from living a life spent mostly alone.
He waited, helmet still on, hands resting on the handlebars. Footsteps approached. Confident. Measured.
“Good afternoon, sir.”
The voice was calm and professional. Female. Young, but steady.
“Do you know why I stopped you today?” the officer asked.
Robert shook his head slowly. “Probably the taillight,” he said. His voice was rough, worn by years of wind and long roads.
“That’s right,” she replied. “License and registration, please.”
He reached into his jacket pocket, his fingers trembling slightly as he pulled out his wallet. He handed over the documents and looked up for the first time.
That was when everything inside him seemed to stop.
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