A little boy pedaled his tiny bicycle through the desert heat just to catch a gang of nine terrifying bikers.

The words hung in the hot desert air, fragile and heavy.

Tate’s eyes narrowed slightly, but his face remained a careful mask of calm. He looked over his shoulder for a split second, exchanging a brief, silent glance with Big Mac, who shrugged his massive shoulders in complete confusion.

Tate turned back to the boy. He reached up, gently unclipped the chin strap of the boy's crooked bicycle helmet, and lifted it off his head, setting it carefully on the bicycle seat. He brushed a clump of sweaty brown hair off the child's forehead.

"You rode three miles down Route 89 on a bicycle to catch us?" Tate asked, his voice filled with a quiet, shocked disbelief. "Kid, that's dangerous. You could have passed out in this heat."

"I had to," the boy insisted, his small voice cracking with raw emotion. "I had to catch you."

"All right," Tate said softly, keeping his tone measured and grounding. "What's your name, little man?"

"Eli," the boy whispered, wiping his face again. "My name is Eli."

"Okay, Eli," Tate said. "And who’s your dad? What's his name?"

"Daniel Cole," Eli said instantly, looking straight into Tate's eyes with heartbreaking intensity. "His name is Daniel Cole."

Tate paused. He mentally scanned through every name, contact, mechanic, shop owner, and affiliate the Black Mesa club had dealt with across northern Arizona for the last fifteen years. The name "Daniel Cole" didn't ring a single bell.

Behind Tate, a couple of the other bikers shook their heads slowly, murmuring low negative responses to one another.

"Daniel Cole..." Tate repeated slowly, testing the name on his tongue. He gave Eli a compassionate, regretful look. "I'm sorry, Eli. I don't think I know a Daniel Cole, buddy. You might have us confused with another group."

The moment those words left Tate's mouth, Eli's face completely fell. His small lower lip trembled, and his eyes filled with absolute, overwhelming despair.

"No! No, you do!" Eli cried out, his voice sharp and desperate. "You know him! He told me about you! Wait—look!"

With frantic, trembling hands, Eli reached around his back and unzipped the front pocket of his heavy blue backpack. He reached inside, his fingers fumbling with urgency, and pulled out an old, creased, physical photograph that had been carefully kept inside a clear plastic sandwich bag to protect it from dust.