The Biker Shoved a Little Girl to the Library Floor—Then Held Up a Falling Steel Bookcase While Protecting the Book in Her Hands

The biker crossed our elementary-school library in three thunderous strides, shoved nine-year-old Lily Carter flat against the carpet, and raised one massive shoulder just before six hundred pounds of books and steel came crashing toward them.

I screamed before I understood.

So did three children sitting near the reading rug.

My name is Claire Bennett, and I taught fourth grade at Red Creek Elementary in Beckford, Ohio, for eleven years. I had practiced lockdown drills, fire evacuations, tornado procedures, and the calm voice teachers use when something frightening happens near children. None of that training prepared me to see a six-foot-five biker put both hands on one of my students and drive her to the floor.

His name was Wade Mercer, though the faded patch on his leather vest said ATLAS.

He was fifty-seven, close to three hundred pounds, with a shaved head, a gray beard hanging to the center of his chest, and tattooed forearms thick enough to make his silver watch look like a child’s bracelet. His boots struck the library floor like hammers. Rainwater darkened his vest, and the smell of wet leather, motor oil, and cold September air followed him through the doorway.

I thought I was watching a stranger attack a child.

I lunged toward him.

Then the bookcase moved.

There was no dramatic warning. No long groan. Just one small metallic click from behind the shelves, a noise so soft that I had mistaken it for a pencil hitting the floor. Wade had not mistaken it. He turned his head, saw the narrow shadow opening between the steel frame and the wall, and moved before anyone else in that room understood what was happening.

He shoved Lily clear.

The twelve-foot bookcase tipped forward.

Wade twisted sideways and caught the upper steel frame across his right shoulder. Books burst from the shelves in a roaring wave, striking his back, his neck, and the carpet around him. His knees folded, but he did not let the frame reach Lily. One boot slid backward through scattered paperbacks while a sound came from his throat that I can still hear when I walk into that library.

Not a yell.

A low, broken grunt.

His left arm braced the steel. His right hand remained lifted above Lily’s head, holding the library book she had been reading seconds earlier—a worn children’s novel with a blue cloth cover and a silver lantern stamped on the front.

“Get her out,” Wade said.

That was all.

I dragged Lily backward by the shoulders while our librarian called for help. Wade’s face had gone pale beneath his weathered skin, and blood was soaking through his shirt near the collar. Yet his fingers stayed closed around that little blue book as if dropping it would break something more important than bone.

When two custodians and the gym teacher finally raised the frame enough to pull him free, Wade refused to look at his shoulder.

He looked at the book.

Then at Lily.

“Did you finish chapter six?” he asked her.

Lily was crying too hard to answer.

The paramedics arrived. The principal arrived. A sheriff’s deputy arrived because my first panicked call had included the words biker, stranger, and pushed a student. Parents began gathering outside before we even understood why Wade had entered the school or how he had recognized the failing bookcase from across the room.

Then Lily picked up a photograph that had slipped from inside his vest.

It showed Wade twelve years younger, kneeling beside another little girl who held the same blue book.

On the back, in a child’s handwriting, were six words:

Daddy, listen when the shelves whisper.

Three weeks before the bookcase fell, I had noticed Wade sitting on his Harley across County Road 14 at dismissal time. He never entered school property. He parked beside the abandoned feed store, shut off the V-twin, removed his gloves, and watched the yellow buses pull away while rain tapped against his fuel tank. Parents noticed him too, and by the third afternoon someone had posted his photograph in a neighborhood group under the words, “Does anybody know this man?”

The answers were not kind. One parent claimed the Iron Lantern patch on his vest belonged to an outlaw club. Another said she had seen him outside the public library. Someone else wrote that men like Wade did not watch schools without a reason. By evening, Principal Harold Pierce had called the sheriff’s office, and I had caught myself zooming in on Wade’s photograph, studying the skull ring on his right hand as if metal jewelry could explain a man.

Deputy Rosa Martinez knew him. She told us Wade owned Mercer Mobile Welding off Route 33 and that the Iron Lanterns were a registered motorcycle association, not an outlaw club. They repaired wheelchair ramps, escorted veteran funerals, and delivered winter coats to families who disliked admitting they needed them. She also said Wade had no criminal record beyond an old disorderly-conduct charge from a bar fight in 1997.

That should have settled it.

It did not.

Fear is stubborn when children are involved. The principal asked Wade to stop parking near the school, and the next afternoon the feed-store lot stood empty. Yet I began finding evidence that he had not been there to frighten anyone. Our librarian, Mrs. Alvarez, showed me a crate of donated books left before sunrise. The invoice had been paid in cash by W. Mercer. Every title had been selected from the school’s request list, and every bookplate carried the same small silver lantern.

The following Saturday, I drove to the county library and saw him again. Wade sat alone at a table built for children, trying to repair the torn spine of a picture book with hands designed for steel. A purple reading backpack rested near his boots. The contrast was so strange that I watched too long, and he noticed.

“You the teacher who keeps staring?” he asked.

I admitted I was.

He pushed the repaired book toward the librarian and said, “Spine won’t hold. Needs stitching, not tape.” His voice sounded like gravel rolling beneath a tire, but he spoke quietly because a toddler was asleep nearby. When he stood, the little table looked like furniture from a dollhouse.

I asked why he watched our buses.

“Wasn’t watching kids.”

“What were you watching?”

“The west wall.”

Red Creek Elementary had been renovated over the summer. Contractors had replaced ceiling tiles, painted classrooms, and moved the library shelves to make room for a new media area. Wade said he had passed the building during the work and seen several bookcases standing unsecured while crews drilled into the masonry. From the road, after classes resumed, he noticed a long vertical shadow behind the tallest unit whenever afternoon sunlight entered the west windows.

“It’s walking,” he said.

I did not understand.

He explained that a heavy steel unit can shift a fraction each time someone loads it, leans against it, or pulls several books from one side. Properly anchored shelves do not “walk.” Unsecured ones slowly change position until weight and gravity settle the argument.

“Did you tell the school?”

“Twice.”

Principal Pierce had dismissed his first voicemail as a sales pitch from a welder. Wade’s second message went into a maintenance inbox no one checked regularly. He could have called the county. He could have demanded an inspection. Instead, he stayed across the road because, as he put it, “I wanted to see if the shadow got wider.”

I was angry at his silence, and he accepted that anger without defending himself. Then Mrs. Alvarez returned the blue lantern book to him, newly stitched. Wade ran one scarred thumb over its cover before sliding it into the purple backpack.

The title was Mara and the Lantern Keeper.

“My daughter taught me this one,” he said.

I assumed he meant she had recommended it.

I was wrong.

Wade could fabricate a bridge railing within a sixteenth of an inch, rebuild a Harley transmission by sound, and read the color of heated steel from across a workshop. But until his daughter Mara turned seven, he could not comfortably read a page written for a second grader.

He had hidden that truth from almost everyone.

Mara had discovered it one night when he skipped half a paragraph during her bedtime story. She did not laugh. She touched the page with one small finger and said, “We can learn it together, Daddy.”

For the next two years, the frightening biker and his little girl read one chapter every night.

The blue book was the first one he finished alone.

The morning Wade entered Red Creek Elementary, rain had been falling since before sunrise. A drainage crew closed County Road 14, forcing him past the school on his way to a welding job. According to what he later told Deputy Martinez, he saw a contractor’s van beside the west entrance and decided to stop one final time.

He carried no tools except a pocket flashlight and a six-inch magnetic level.

Our secretary tried to keep him in the office. Wade told her he only needed someone to check the library’s tall shelving. Principal Pierce was leading a parent meeting and sent word that maintenance would handle it. Wade could have left.

Then he heard metal scrape through the open library door.

Inside, twenty-four fourth graders were choosing books for independent reading. Lily Carter stood beside the tallest bookcase, holding Mara and the Lantern Keeper. She had pulled it from the upper-middle shelf, leaving a narrow gap among tightly packed hardcovers. When she leaned back to study the cover, the weight shifted forward.

Click.

Wade knew that sound.

He dropped the level.

He ran.

I saw black leather, tattoos, and a huge hand reaching for Lily. My body reacted before my mind could gather facts. I shouted her name, stepped between two tables, and reached for the emergency phone clipped to my belt.

“Down!” Wade barked.

Lily froze.

So he pushed her.

She hit the carpet on her side, startled but unhurt. Wade turned his back to her, planted his left boot, and raised his shoulder as the bookcase came away from the wall. The top struck him first. His body absorbed enough of the fall to change its path, and instead of crushing Lily, the unit slammed diagonally across a low table.

Books exploded everywhere.

Children screamed.

The lights trembled in their ceiling fixtures, and a metal shelf tore loose with a sound like a car door being dragged along concrete. Wade remained beneath the upper frame, bent almost double. His right knee touched the floor. His left leg shook so violently that the chain on his wallet rattled against his boot.

“Move the kids,” he said.

I stood there.

“Teacher. Move them.”

That brought me back. I sent the students toward Mrs. Alvarez and ordered them into the hallway. Two boys tried to help Wade, but he growled for them to stay clear. The shelf had wedged against the table, creating a narrow pocket around Lily. Any careless pull could have shifted it again.

Lily crawled toward me, then stopped.

“My book.”

It lay near Wade’s right hand. The cover was open, pages folding beneath falling hardbacks. Wade released one finger from the frame, then another, and caught the book before a shelf panel landed on it. It was an absurd thing to do while hundreds of pounds pressed against his shoulder.

Yet he did it.

He held the frame with his left arm and the book with his right, keeping both above the child until I pulled her free.

The gym teacher and custodians arrived with a rolling floor jack. Wade explained exactly where to place it, speaking through clenched teeth. They lifted the frame three inches. He crawled out, stood once, and immediately dropped to one knee.

Principal Pierce entered as paramedics cut away Wade’s shirt.

The bruise across his shoulder was already turning black. A jagged bracket had opened the skin near his collarbone. When a medic asked whether he could feel his fingers, Wade lifted the blue book instead of answering.

“Give this to the kid.”

Lily approached slowly. Her lower lip trembled, but she took it.

“I thought you were hurting me,” she whispered.

“Most folks did.”

“Are you mad?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Wade looked toward me. There was no accusation in his face, which made my shame worse.

“People protect children with what they know,” he said. “Your teacher used her voice. I used my shoulder.”

Then the paramedics placed him on a stretcher.

That should have been the end of the story: a misunderstood man saves a child, a school apologizes, and everyone learns not to judge leather and tattoos. Local television arrived before noon, already arranging the facts into that simple shape.

But the maintenance crew found something behind the fallen bookcase.

Four anchor holes had been drilled into the wall.

The bolts were missing.

Beside one empty hole was a red inspection mark dated six weeks earlier—the same date Wade had first parked across the road.

Principal Pierce stared at it.

Wade had not merely predicted the collapse.

Someone had known the shelf was unsecured.

At Beckford County Hospital, doctors found a fractured collarbone, two cracked ribs, and a torn muscle in Wade’s right shoulder. They wanted to keep him overnight. He argued until a nurse with silver hair told him that men who could barely breathe were poor judges of whether they needed observation.

The Iron Lanterns arrived twenty minutes later.

Nine motorcycles rolled into the hospital lot, their engines settling into an uneven V-twin thunder before cutting off almost together. The riders entered smelling of rain, leather, road coffee, and engine heat. They ranged from a seventy-year-old retired machinist called Preacher to a twenty-six-year-old prospect named Eli, but every one of them stopped when they saw Wade’s empty vest folded across a chair.

They treated that vest like another body.

Preacher lifted it carefully and found the photograph Lily had returned after reading its inscription. On the front, a younger Wade knelt beside a thin, smiling girl with dark braids. On the back were the words about listening when shelves whispered.

I was there because Lily’s mother had asked me to deliver a card from the class. I should have left it with the nurse. Instead, I asked Preacher who the girl was.

“Mara,” he said. “Atlas’s daughter.”

Then he told me what Wade never would.

Twelve years earlier, Wade had been a union ironworker in Ash Hollow, West Virginia. Mara spent Saturdays at a small community library while he worked overtime replacing railings at a courthouse. The library occupied a converted hardware store with brick walls, uneven floors, and secondhand steel shelving donated by a closed college.

Wade noticed one of the shelves moving.

He reported it to the director. He offered to anchor every unit for free. A board member refused because the town planned to renovate and did not want holes drilled into exposed brick. They tied the shelf temporarily to a heating pipe with a thin perforated strap.

Wade knew it was inadequate.

He also knew how people looked at a tattooed single father who had left school at sixteen and struggled to read. So when a board member told him the town’s insured contractors understood public buildings better than “a motorcycle mechanic,” Wade swallowed the insult and walked away.

Three days later, a delivery truck backed into the outside wall.

The impact shook the building. Two shelves shifted. One remained upright.

The other fell into the children’s corner.

Mara pushed a five-year-old boy beneath a table before the frame struck her. She died in the ambulance holding the boy’s picture book against her chest. It was Mara and the Lantern Keeper, the same copy she had used to teach her father to read.

The Iron Lanterns expected Wade to disappear after the funeral. He stopped riding for eight months, closed his welding shop, and slept on a cot beside his Harley because he could not enter Mara’s room. When Preacher tried to move the purple backpack from the motorcycle, Wade broke his nose.

That was the old disorderly-conduct charge mentioned online.

The club split over what to do next. Some wanted to drag the library board through every newspaper in the state. Two riders proposed appearing at the board president’s home. Preacher refused. Wade refused more forcefully.

“Mara saved a kid,” he told them. “Don’t turn her name into something children should fear.”

Instead, he completed his high-school equivalency diploma. It took him three attempts. Then he studied structural welding, load transfer, public-fixture anchoring, and safety inspection. The man who had once hidden restaurant menus behind jokes eventually earned certifications that engineers twice his education respected.

He began inspecting shelves for free.

Libraries first. Then schools. Then church nurseries, thrift stores, community halls, and anywhere else heavy furniture stood near children. The Iron Lanterns traveled with him, carrying drills, brackets, and boxes of bolts in their saddlebags.

But Red Creek Elementary had turned them away.

The principal had received Wade’s first warning. The red mark behind the bookcase came from a subcontractor named Daniel Crowe, who had identified the missing anchors during renovation. Crowe documented the defect, placed the mark, and submitted a correction order.

The general contractor closed the order without doing the work.

Why?

Because four anchors cost less than twenty dollars, but emptying, moving, drilling, cleaning, replacing, and reloading seven tall bookcases would delay the project by two days. The contractor was already facing penalties for finishing late.

A supervisor signed the correction sheet.

Principal Pierce signed the renovation completion form without reading the attached exceptions.

Wade had seen enough from across the road to recognize the lie.

Yet that was not the revelation that silenced the Iron Lanterns in Wade’s hospital room. Preacher turned the photograph toward me and pointed to the little boy standing behind Mara.

He wore thick glasses and held the blue book she would later protect.

“That boy is Daniel Crowe,” Preacher said.

The inspector who had marked our wall was the child Mara died saving.

Daniel arrived at the hospital after midnight. He was thirty-one, thin, clean-shaven, and soaked from the rain. He stood outside Wade’s room for nearly ten minutes with a document tube beneath one arm and the expression of a man approaching a grave.

Wade recognized him immediately.

“You got tall,” he said.

Daniel laughed once, but it broke in the middle. He had attended Mara’s funeral twelve years before and then moved with his mother to Columbus. Wade had written to him twice, telling him that Mara’s choice was not a debt. Daniel never answered because every reply sounded either inadequate or cruel.

Years later, he became a building inspector.

He told himself the career had nothing to do with Mara. Then he found himself checking furniture anchors before electrical panels, running his palms behind shelves, and listening whenever loaded steel shifted against a wall.

At Red Creek Elementary, Daniel had marked all seven library bookcases as unsafe. He submitted photographs and recommended immediate closure of the room. His supervisor, Nolan Price, changed the report from “critical correction” to “maintenance advisory” after pressure from the general contractor.

Daniel objected.

Price reminded him that he was still within his probationary period. If Daniel refused to sign the revised paperwork, the firm would replace him and classify his original findings as incomplete. Daniel signed, believing the shelves would at least remain unloaded until the district repaired them.

They were loaded the next morning.

When Daniel discovered that, he called the school office anonymously. The message never reached me, Mrs. Alvarez, or the district safety coordinator. Afraid of losing his position, he did not attach his name.

That silence sat between Daniel and Wade like another fallen shelf.

“I heard about the accident on the radio,” Daniel said. “I knew which unit it was before they gave the address.”

Wade adjusted the sling around his arm. His face tightened, but his voice remained quiet.

“You saw it.”

“Yes.”

“You marked it.”

“Yes.”

“And then you let somebody erase your voice.”

Daniel began crying. Wade did not comfort him. Not yet.

Preacher and the Iron Lanterns waited in the hallway because this part belonged to two men connected by the worst moment of their lives. I remained near the door with Lily’s card in my hands, wishing I had no right to hear it and knowing someone needed to remember every word.

Daniel placed the document tube on Wade’s bed. Inside were photographs of every missing anchor, copies of his original inspection, emails from Nolan Price, and a timestamped image showing the bookcases fully loaded after Daniel had issued his warning.

“Tomorrow I’m giving these to the sheriff and the district,” he said. “They’ll fire me.”

“Probably.”

“They might take my certification.”

“Maybe.”

“I should’ve done it six weeks ago.”

“Yeah.”

Daniel looked almost relieved when Wade refused to soften the truth.

Then Wade asked, “Why now?”

Daniel pointed toward the photograph on the chair. “Because she pushed me once. Today you pushed someone else. If I stay quiet again, then both of you did it for nothing.”

Wade stared at him for a long time.

Finally, he reached for the blue lantern book on the bedside table. Lily had sent it with her card because she thought he should keep it until his shoulder healed. Wade opened the cover and showed Daniel the library stamp from Ash Hollow.

It was not merely the same title.

It was the same physical copy Mara had held when she died.

After the accident, the damaged book had been returned to Wade with Mara’s belongings. He repaired it, carried it for years, and eventually donated it anonymously to Red Creek’s reading program after learning that Lily Carter struggled with dyslexia.

Lily had been avoiding chapter books. She confused letters, lost her place, and sometimes pretended to have forgotten her glasses rather than read aloud. Wade had heard about her through Mrs. Alvarez, who volunteered at both libraries. He chose the book because Mara’s penciled reading marks remained faintly visible beneath the printed words.

Small arcs joined syllables. Tiny dots marked pauses. A silver star appeared beside every difficult sentence Mara and Wade had mastered together.

The book that taught Wade to read was now teaching Lily.

That was why he kept it raised while the steel frame crushed his shoulder. It was not more valuable than the child. Nothing was. But once Lily was beneath him and the shelf had stopped moving, he protected the object that had brought Mara’s voice into another frightened reader’s hands.

Daniel touched one of the penciled stars.

“I remember this page,” he whispered.

Wade nodded. “Chapter six.”

It was the chapter Mara had been reading to him the morning she died.

Daniel handed over his evidence the next day. Nolan Price and the general contractor faced charges related to falsified safety records and reckless endangerment. Principal Pierce was placed on administrative leave pending the district investigation.

Wade asked for no settlement and gave no television interview.

He requested one thing.

Let the Iron Lanterns secure the remaining shelves.

The school board resisted Wade’s offer. Their attorney warned that allowing a motorcycle club into an active school would create liability, bad publicity, and “community discomfort.” That phrase traveled through Beckford quickly.

Community discomfort.

It meant the leather. The tattoos. The long beards, chain wallets, patched vests, and motorcycles loud enough to shake office windows. It did not mean the unsigned inspection reports, the missing bolts, or the principal who had mistaken paperwork for safety.

For the first time since Mara’s death, the Iron Lanterns disagreed with Wade about helping.

Eli wanted to walk away. Two older members said the district could hire contractors at full price and explain the expense to parents. Preacher, whose nose still bent slightly from the night he touched Mara’s backpack, said nothing until Wade finished speaking.

Then he asked, “What would the girl want?”

Wade looked at the purple backpack hanging from a peg in his garage.

“Shelves that stay put.”

That ended the argument.

The school board approved a supervised volunteer repair after 327 parents signed a petition in two days. On Friday evening, eleven Harleys rolled into the Red Creek parking lot. The engines cut off one by one, leaving the ticking of cooling metal beneath the gymnasium lights.

No children were present. No cameras were invited.

I went anyway.

Wade’s collarbone had not healed, so his right arm remained in a sling. He could not lift a drill or carry steel, but he inspected every measurement. Preacher marked masonry holes. Eli vacuumed concrete dust. Daniel Crowe, newly suspended from his job, worked beside them without pay.

They removed every tall shelf.

Behind three units, they found anchors driven only into drywall. Behind another, they found bolts too short to reach the masonry. Wade photographed each defect, labeled each location, and sent the report to the district before allowing a single book to return.

At two in the morning, the library smelled of dust, coffee, leather, and hot drill bits. The men moved quietly because Wade disliked unnecessary noise around books. When someone dropped a wrench, he looked up sharply.

Old reflex.

Lily’s mother brought sandwiches near midnight. Lily stayed home, but she sent a paper lantern she had made from blue construction paper. Across one side she had written, “For Mara.” Across the other: “For Mr. Atlas’s shoulder.”

Wade read both sides twice.

He hung it above the repaired bookcase.

By dawn, every unit was anchored through steel brackets into solid masonry. The Iron Lanterns then secured cabinets in the art room, storage shelves in the music wing, and a trophy case near the main entrance. They kept working after their promised job was finished because Wade had seen a slight gap beneath one cabinet and no longer trusted slight gaps.

The district offered the club a plaque.

Wade refused.

He asked for annual furniture inspections, a public correction to the renovation report, and a rule requiring any critical safety warning to reach three separate district employees. Daniel helped write the policy while waiting to learn whether he would retain his certification.

He did.

Investigators concluded that his original report had been accurate and deliberately altered by his supervisor. Daniel received formal discipline for signing the revision and failing to escalate the hazard, but the state allowed him to continue working under supervision.

Wade approved of that outcome.

“A second chance should still have weight,” he said. “Otherwise it’s just permission.”

When students returned Monday, the tall bookcase stood in its original place. New brackets were visible at the top because Wade refused the district’s request to hide them behind decorative trim.

“Let them see what holds things up,” he said.

The blue paper lantern turned slowly above it whenever the heating system came on.

And beneath that lantern, Lily opened the book again.

Wade returned to Red Creek six weeks later. His shoulder was stiff, his beard had been trimmed around the scar near his collarbone, and he moved carefully when he removed his leather vest. The school invited him to an assembly, but he refused the stage.

He chose the library rug.

Twenty-four children sat around him while parents and teachers stood along the walls. Some of those parents had once shared his photograph online with warnings. Now they watched him lower his large frame into a child-sized chair and place Mara and the Lantern Keeper across his knees.

Lily sat beside him.

She had practiced chapter six every afternoon. When she reached a difficult sentence, her finger followed one of Mara’s faded pencil arcs beneath the words. Wade waited without helping. He knew the difference between abandoning someone and giving them time.

Lily finished the paragraph.

“Your turn,” she said.

The room became very still.

Wade looked down at the page. His scarred index finger rested beside a silver star Mara had drawn twelve years earlier. For a second, I thought he might close the book.

Instead, he read.

His voice was rough and slow. He stumbled over one word, corrected himself, and continued. No one laughed. No one interrupted. When the chapter ended, Lily leaned across and tapped the star with her finger.

“We got it,” she whispered.

Wade nodded.

Afterward, Principal Pierce approached him. The district had reinstated Pierce with a formal reprimand after determining that he had been careless but had not known the contractor falsified the correction record. He apologized privately, then asked whether Wade would accept a paid position on the district safety committee.

Wade declined the money.

He accepted the position.

Daniel attended every inspection with him during the following year. They rarely discussed Mara, but each August they visited the old Ash Hollow library together. The building had become a community workshop, and every cabinet, shelf, and tool rack was anchored into brick.

On the anniversary of Mara’s death, the Iron Lanterns rode there before sunrise. They brought no speeches. They placed one blue lantern on the steps, drank bitter coffee, and listened as morning traffic moved along the wet highway.

Lily is sixteen now.

She volunteers in the Red Creek library and reads with children who struggle the way she once did. The original blue book sits inside a glass-fronted cabinet, but not because Wade wanted it treated like a museum piece. The binding finally became too fragile for daily use.

Beside it rests the twisted bracket removed from the fallen shelf.

Above both objects hangs a photograph of Wade sitting on the library rug, one arm still in a sling, listening while Lily reads chapter six. The caption contains no mention of heroism.

It says only:

Listen when something whispers.

Wade still arrives every September on his black Harley. The engine settles into that deep, uneven rhythm outside the west entrance, then goes silent. He checks every anchor personally, runs his palm behind each bookcase, and leaves a small silver mark beside each secure bolt.

Before riding away, he stops beneath the blue paper lantern.

It has faded. The folds are soft. One corner has been repaired with clear tape, but Mrs. Alvarez refuses to replace it.

Wade touches two fingers to the paper.

Then the Harley starts.

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