It is a cold October night, five years to the night, and every sports car and bike in the city is in one lot down by the water. You brought her this year because she would not sleep, and because some stubborn, unforgiven part of you wanted to see whether he would be here.

He is. You would know that bike anywhere: matte black, no chrome, the one he built with his own hands, rolling slow down the row and cutting the engine directly in front of you. The full-face helmet comes off, and it is him.

Your daughter tugs at your hand.

For a second he does not hear her over the pipes. Then the lot goes quiet, and he does. His eyes move to her — to the exact shade of his own grey-green — and come back up to you, and for the first time since you have known him, Cathal Foley has nothing smart to say. He steps close, close enough that the cold air between you goes warm.

He is older in the jaw, a thin black line of ink running down his right forearm to the wrist, and he smells like exhaust and the salt off the harbor. Behind him, headlights sweep the fence line, a hundred engines idle like a low tide, and the big rider who rode at his side straightens up off his own bike and watches, saying nothing.

He sets the helmet down on the seat of his bike and keeps his eyes on yours, the Boston in his voice gone flat and careful.