Tucker Rollins had three shrine cards fanned across the workbench and a frame welded to nothing yet. The frame was the start of the bike he had promised himself for ten years: chrome-moly tubes bent by hand, a tank he would beat from a single sheet, and a blessing from the god of travelers stamped into the headstock before he cut a single weld bead. The blessing was the part that stopped him. Dalton had four gods who claimed the roads, and the old riders swore that petitioning the wrong one soured a build for life. Warped rims. Seized bearings. A rider who never made it home. Tucker had spent his savings on the tubing already. He could not afford a cursed frame, and he could not afford to guess. The white mountain dog that had followed him home last winter pushed the shop door open with her nose and dropped something wet on his boot. Tucker looked down. It was a road medal, tarnished, the kind pilgrims nailed to trailhead posts. He had never seen it before. The dog sat, pink and violet eyes fixed on him, tail brushing sawdust. He turned the medal over. One face showed a woman with a walking staff. The other showed a paw print, worn smooth, and the single word LONG-ROAD. Only one of his four cards matched. Tucker swept the other three into the scrap bin, pinned the matching card above the vise, and lit the torch. The dog lay down under the bench while he cut the first tube.