Replaced damaged wiring.
Tested compression.
Installed a new battery.
According to every measurement, the motorcycle should have started.
But it didn't.
The engine turned without catching.
The kick lever snapped backward whenever someone tried to use it.
And the battery mysteriously lost power within minutes.
Jim stared at Rusty.
"Tell me she's running."
Rusty looked at the motorcycle.
"I wish I could."
"The memorial is Saturday."
"I know."
Jim's voice dropped.
"I promised his family they'd hear this engine one final time."
Rusty sighed.
"We've done everything the service manual says."
Jim looked at the old machine.
"Dutch never cared much for manuals."
Nobody laughed.
Nobody wanted to admit what everyone was beginning to fear.
Maybe Dutch's final ride would never happen.
Then a tiny voice came from beside the office door.
"My daddy knew that bike."
Everyone turned.
Leo was standing there.
And the entire room was about to change.
The Mechanic's Son
Leo's mother, Maria Hayes, worked at Apex Iron Works cleaning the office during the late afternoons.
She couldn't afford regular childcare, so Leo often stayed with her.
Rusty had created a safe little corner for him filled with picture books, toys, and harmless old motorcycle parts.
Leo had spent countless hours watching the mechanics work.
But he wasn't simply fascinated by motorcycles.
His father had been a mechanic too.
Arthur Hayes—everyone called him Arty—had been the only independent mechanic Dutch trusted with his beloved black motorcycle.
Arty and Dutch had spent years experimenting with unusual modifications.
Then cancer took Arty's life.
Leo had been only two years old.
His father knew he wouldn't have much time with his son, so during his final months, he recorded videos and filled a wooden box with photographs, notes, tools, and little reminders of the life he wanted Leo to remember.
One photograph showed Arty kneeling beside Dutch's motorcycle while baby Leo sat on his shoulders.
Leo couldn't remember the day.
But he remembered his father's voice from the videos.
"The sleepy black bike," Leo called it.
Jim crouched in front of him.
"Did your daddy leave anything about this motorcycle?"
Maria hesitated.
"Maybe."
"What do you mean?"
"Arty had a notebook."
"What kind of notebook?"
"The kind only a mechanic could understand."
Leo suddenly tugged on his mother's sleeve.
"The book with the bird."
Maria froze.
She knew exactly what he meant.
Arty had kept a grease-stained notebook whose cover contained a faded drawing of a bird Leo had made when he was barely old enough to hold a crayon.
Jim looked at Maria.