A loud, triumphant shout echoed from the stone pedestal behind us.
"Grandpa Harold! Look!"
Benjamin was standing beside the motorcycle, holding the antique brass ignition key high above his head, pointing toward the open valley.
"Dad says the oil pressure is eighty pounds! The tanks are full! Let's take her down to the river road!"
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Thomas looked across the terrace, catching my eye with that wide, brilliant, unclouded smile that erased every shadow of the past thirty-six years.
"What do you say, Captain?" Thomas called out, his baritone ringing across the flagstones. "Does the dispatch ride today?"
I set my coffee mug on the cedar railing.
I walked across the sun-drenched terrace, stepped up to the stone pedestal, and placed my hand over my grandson’s fingers on the brass key.
"The dispatch rides today, Benjamin," I said softly, every word singing with the glorious, unbroken music of an honest soul.
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