Chapter 3
The silo walls start to blur around me, like someone's takin' an eraser to the edges of everything.
The grain dust that's been dancin' in the light freezes mid-air, suspended like stars in a dead sky.
Eleanor's ghost flickers at the corners, her form dissolvin' into something less substantial than memory.
"Legion," a voice cuts through. Not Eleanor's. Not the past. "Legion, please. Your fever's too high, baby. You gotta come back to me."
Savannah.
Adult Savannah. Her voice breaks through whatever this is—hallucination, fever dream, death. The panic in her tone feels like cold water splashin' against my consciousness.
"They're sayin' the infection's reached your bloodstream," she continues, words comin' from everywhere and nowhere. "You need to wake up now."
Eleanor's ghost disappears completely. The silo walls start to fade, and something else bleeds through—the rhythmic beep of machines, the squeak of shoes on linoleum floors, the clinical smell of antiseptic cuttin' through the grain dust.
I don't move. Can't move. My body feels anchored to a different reality than my mind. The brand on my chest—the one that was missin' in the memory place—burns with real fire now. Not the ceremonial kind. The kind that kills.
"Mr. Kane, can you hear me?" Another voice. Clinical. Professional. "If you can hear me, try to open your eyes."
I don't. Not yet. There's somethin' unfinished here. Somethin' I need to see before I can go back. The infection might be killin' me, but this journey through memory feels just as vital. Like if I don't finish it, I'll lose somethin' more important than my life.
I'll lose myself.
The hospital sounds warp and dim as I push them away. The silo begins to rebuild itself around me, grain dust resuming its slow dance in the light. But it's different now. Less solid. The edges of everything have a transparency to them, like I'm seein' through the thinnest veil.
I feel time pressin' down. Whatever grace period my mind's been given is runnin' out. The light in the silo shifts, shadows extending across the concrete floor. Afternoon moving into evening. My time here fadin'.
I stand in the Terry Garage parking lot, sweat soaking through my shirt like I'm under a goddamn waterfall. The midday heat beats down on the asphalt, making the air shimmer and warp.
My stomach growls, reminding me I haven't eaten since yesterday's half-sandwich at the garage where I work full time now for part-time pay.
Just as I'm lifting the last box of parts off the truck, a gleaming white Range Rover pulls into the lot, kickin' up dust that settles on my already filthy jeans. I don't need to see the driver to know who it is.
Eleanor fuckin' Ashby.
"Not now," I mutter, turnin' away like I don't see her. "Go away."
My life's a goddamn mess this summer. Savannah didn't come home at all—off at some fancy horse camp in England with people who probably wipe their asses with hundred-dollar bills.
It's like that girl exists in some parallel universe that occasionally crosses with mine, just enough to remind me of what I can't have.
And now her mother shows up, probably wanting to take more pictures of the poor kid from the wrong side of the tracks. Like I'm some fuckin' zoo animal she's studying.
But when Eleanor steps out of her luxury SUV, there's no camera in her hand, just a yellow envelope.
"Legion," she calls, her voice carrying across the parking lot.
I wince when the guys in the garage—previously ignoring me like I'm invisible—suddenly look over, taking an interest in whatever's about to unfold in the parking lot with the local poor kid and the Ashby Queen.
"I was just passing through and saw you. "
Passing through Terry, Montana?
Right. I almost laugh.
She walks toward me with that confidence rich people have—like the world was built for them to move through it.
"Happy birthday," she says, holding out the envelope.
I freeze with my hand on the truck door.
Nobody else remembered. Not my mama, who's been working doubles and sleeps when she's home.
Not little Destiny, who's only three and spends most of her time hiding from Deacon's moods.
Certainly not that bastard Deacon himself, who's been demanding more and more of my hard-earned cash to stay away from our trailer.
I'm flat out broke these days and it's really starting to piss me off.
The Badlands crew hasn't noticed me either, despite working at the Terry Garage for over a year. I've been trying to get them to let me prospect, but they look through me like I'm made of smoke. A kid on a Honda Shadow with no connections isn't worth their time.
Not even Savannah remembered my birthday.
But who shows up, today, of all days?
Eleanor fuckin' Ashby. Again. Without fail. And I hate her for that—for being the one person who sees me when nobody else even bothers to look.
I sigh and take the envelope, my dirty fingers leaving smudges on the crisp paper. Inside are photographs and five stacks of twenty-dollar bills bound with a paper band that reads, $2000.
Ten thousand dollars. I look at Eleanor. “What the fuck is this?”
“It’s money, Legion. And photographs. Don’t you want to look at them?”
I let out a breath, removin’ the photos from the envelope.
It’s a nice stack of five by sevens. Most of them are of me—moments of my childhood I’d forgot about long ago.
Me on my shitty BMX bike. Me skippin' stones across the creek.
Me standing on a ridge at sunset. The pictures in my hands are anchors to my youth. I grow up before my eyes.
But it's the last photo that stops time.
It's a man with my jawline, my eyes, my build. But older, harder, with a beard and the thousand-yard stare of someone who's seen too much.
My father.
I look up at Eleanor. "Why are you doin’ this to me?"
"Doing what?" Eleanor asks quietly.
“Killin’ me like this. Why do you wanna kill me like this, Eleanor? Why can’t you just leave me alone?”
She frowns. Like my words actually mean something, though I doubt they do. "They’re just some of my favorite photos of you. And some money. I meant it as a birthday present, but… but you can consider it payment for all the modeling you've done over the years if it makes you feel better."
I don't react. Don't thank her. Don't smile. My face stays stone as I toss the envelope onto the passenger seat of the truck I drive to pick up parts.
Then I go back to unloading the truck bed like she isn't even here.
"I won't be around for a few weeks," Eleanor says, shifting her weight from one expensive shoe to the other. "I'm… taking a series of photographs in… Wyoming. The light there is extraordinary in late summer."
I don't look at her. Don't acknowledge her words. Just keep workin', the muscles in my arms and back flexing with each lift and turn.
"Legion," she tries again. Her voice has an edge of desperation that makes my skin crawl. "I'd like to talk about—"
"Got work to finish, Eleanor," I cut her off, still not looking at her. "Thanks for the money and… whatever. Thanks."
She lingers for another minute, then walks back to her Range Rover.
I don't watch her leave, but listen to the engine as it purrs to life, and she pulls away.
The next morning, I'm standing in the Harley dealership in Billings before they even flip the sign to OPEN. The salesman, a paunchy guy with a goatee and a Sturgis Rally t-shirt, eyes the neatly bundled stacks I place on the counter with open suspicion.
"Where'd you get this kind of money, son?" he asks, thumbing through the bills like they're a deck of cards.
"Saved it," I lie.
"Uh-huh," he says, not believing me for a second. "And you're how old?"
"Eighteen," I answer, sliding my ID across the counter. "As of yesterday."
He looks at the license, then at me, then back at the money. "Well, let me count this again, just to be sure."
He counts out every bill, taking his sweet ass time like he's hoping I'll get nervous and confess to robbing a bank.
I don't. Because I didn't.
Eleanor. I thought about her all fuckin' day after she left. Something wasn't right about her, and it's bugging me, but I can't put my finger on what, exactly, it was.
"All right," Sturgis Shirt says. "It's all here."
"Told you it was," I mumble. But he doesn't hear me.
The paperwork to trade in the Honda takes another hour, but when that hour's over, so is my life.
My old life, that is.
Because the Dyna Fat Bob is my ticket in to Badlands.
It's comin'. I can feel it.
The bike is special in that it's a real fuckin' Harley, it's a Fat Bob, and it's black. But other than that, it's pretty average.
But it won't be average forever. And when I throw my leg over it and feel the engine rumble to life beneath me, there it is. The something that's coming roars up inside me and I leave the dealership a different person than when I walked in.
I ride a hundred and eighty-three miles without stoppin', picturing how I will customize the bike. New paint, tank art, replace the dented chrome with matte-black powder coat, ape-hangers, staggered short shots…
It will change over time, and I'll change with it.
The wind tears at my clothes, the sun beats down on my arms, and for the first time in months, I feel alive.
When I finally stop, it's on a ridge overlooking the Badlands compound. From up here, I can see men moving around the property—loading bikes, smokin', passing bottles.
One of them looks up, seems to notice me silhouetted against the sky. But he doesn't point. Doesn't raise an alarm. Just goes back to what he was doin' like I'm not even there.
I'm still invisible to them.
Still nothin'.
But not for long.
These outlaws are my future.
Two years later, the truck stop pavement burns through the soles of my boots, hot enough to fry an egg. Savannah leans over the hood of her Range Rover, spreading out a paper map like we're living in some time before cell phones existed.