Page 152 of Shatter

It's a leather vest on a hook by a front door in Oslo, a dead man's grin on the back of it, black holes for eyes.

My father's colors.

I used to hide behind the couch so it couldn't see me.

Then it's gone.

It's only leather and thread, and Tor standing at the end of a table in Tallahassee, Florida, holding out something I earned with my own two hands.

Not handed down.

Mine.

I take it, my hands shaking so hard the leather rattles.

I shrug out of my prospect cut and fold it and set it on the table.

Then I pull the new one on.

It's heavy across my shoulders, stiff and warm, smelling of new leather and nothing else.

It'll smell like me soon.

The room erupts.

Fists on the table, boots stomping, Rati howling like a wolf, Gunnar hauling me into a headlock and punching my shoulder over and over, laughing.

Tor waits until it dies down.

Then he steps up close and puts one heavy hand on the back of my cut, right between my shoulder blades, where the colors sit.

"You went in the front door." His voice is low, meant for me. "You brought her out first."

"Yes, sir." My voice cracks.

"Not sir anymore." One corner of his mouth lifts. "Brother."

***

I call Walt from the back porch of the clubhouse, while the party's roaring up behind me.

It's a Thursday, and he picks up on the first ring.

"Breck." He sounds worried. "It's not Sunday."

"I got my patch." It comes out of me in a rush, rough and shaking. "Walt. I got patched in. Tonight. It was unanimous."

On the other end of the line, silence.

Then a sound I've never heard Walt make, a long, shaky breath, like a man letting go of something he's been holding for twenty years.

"Well, hell." His voice goes thick. "Hell, son. I'm proud of you."

I sit down on the porch step and put my head in my hand.

"There's something else." I stare out at the dark pines. "Walt. I found her."

The line goes silent.