"General Patton knew there were traitors inside the Allied High Command in Paris who were preparing to whitewash those accounts for private profit after the armistice. Patton refused to hand the cylinder to Supreme Headquarters. He called your father—his most trusted dispatch sergeant—and had the motorcycle's twin-tank structure disassembled in a field hospital tent outside Noville."
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The room seemed to violently run out of air.
The twin-tank structure.
Every Sunday for thirty-six years, I had rubbed carnauba wax into the left and right teardrop fuel reservoirs of that machine. The left tank held three gallons of high-octane gasoline; the right tank—which my father had always told me was an auxiliary oil reserve that had been sealed off by the factory in 1946—had remained locked, dry, and untouched by three generations of wrenches.
