Zayden

Zayden—or Zay, as we called him—was a sight. Tank top, backward cap, and arms so covered in intricate, swirling black ink they looked like tapestries. He had this quiet, intense look, like he was always scanning for trouble, but he had a heart of gold. If you ever needed a spare part, a jump-start, or just someone to listen to you vent, Zay was the first to offer. "Hey, kid," Zay said, briefly glancing over at me. "Make sure you hold onto that grip tight. The road gets a bit bumpy up ahead."