“This young lady.”
The rider looked at Casey's chain.
Then at her bruised arm.
“She took on six?”
Casey shook her head.
“Not exactly.”
Walter smiled.
“She took on six before I remembered I wasn't as old as I looked.”
The rider laughed.
“That's not what I heard.”
“Then you've been listening to idiots.”
The group laughed.
Casey felt something unfamiliar.
Safety.
Not because there were thirty motorcycles.
Because nobody demanded anything from her.
Nobody asked her to be tough.
Nobody told her she was stupid for getting involved.
They simply stood there.
Present.
Walter walked back to her.
“You really don't have insurance?”
“No.”
“Job?”
“Mechanic.”
“Good.”
“What?”
“Come work for me.”
Casey stared.
“What?”
“I need somebody who can look at a machine and see what it's trying to say.”
“I work for Marcus.”
“Then work for Marcus during the day.”
“And you?”
“Evenings.”
“I can't afford to work for free.”
Walter laughed.
“I didn't offer free.”
Casey looked at him suspiciously.
“How much?”
“Enough to pay your grandmother's bill.”
Her expression changed.
“I didn't tell you about that.”
“You didn't have to.”
Walter nodded toward her hands.
“Grease under your nails. Cheap boots. One adjustable wrench. Library card. You count your money before you spend it.”
Casey stared.
“You notice everything?”
“I've had a lot of practice.”
He handed her a card.
“Come by tomorrow.”
Casey took it.
On the front:
DOYLE CUSTOM CYCLES
She looked up.
“Why me?”
Walter answered without hesitation.
“Because when everybody else had a reason to walk away, you didn't.”
The Debt
Casey didn't tell Eleanor about Walter's offer immediately.
She knew her grandmother would object.
And she was right.
“You're not working for some motorcycle man because he feels sorry for you.”
“He doesn't feel sorry for me.”
“Then why?”
“Because he thinks I'm good.”
Eleanor became quiet.
Casey sat across from her.
“He offered me real work.”
“Doing what?”
“Restoration.”
“Motorcycles?”
“Yes.”
Eleanor sighed.
“You've always loved those things.”
“I know.”
“Your grandfather would've liked that.”
Casey smiled.
“That's what Walter said.”
Eleanor looked at her.
“Walter?”
“Walter Doyle.”
Her grandmother froze.
“The Walter Doyle?”
“Yes.”
Eleanor leaned back.
“Well.”
“What?”
“I suppose if you're going to make a reckless decision, at least make it with someone reputable.”
Casey laughed.
The next afternoon, she visited Doyle Custom Cycles.
The shop was nothing like she expected.
It wasn't glamorous.
It was an old converted barn filled with motorcycles, tools, spare parts, photographs, and decades of history.
Walter stood beside a stripped-down engine.
“You came.”
“You said to.”
“I did.”
He handed her a wrench.
“Let's see what you know.”
For three hours, he tested her.
Not with questions.
With machines.
A carburetor.
A stubborn clutch.
An electrical problem.
Casey diagnosed all three.
Walter watched.
At the end, he nodded.
“You're hired.”
“That easy?”
“No.”
“What did you see?”
“You think like a mechanic.”
Casey smiled.
Walter added:
“And you don't panic.”
She thought about the gas station.
“I panicked.”
“You acted anyway.”
That was the difference.
Over the next few weeks, Casey worked harder than she ever had.
She learned restoration.
She learned how Walter listened to engines.
She learned the history of motorcycles.
She learned that Doyle Custom Cycles had once been famous across Arizona.
Walter had built bikes for musicians, veterans, racers, and ordinary people who wanted one machine that felt like it belonged only to them.
He taught Casey something else.
“Never restore a motorcycle to make it look new.”
“Why?”
“Because old things have memories.”
Casey smiled.
“You say that about everything.”
“I mean it.”
Meanwhile, Brody Kane's case moved forward.
Security footage from the gas station connected him to other assaults.
One of those victims had been a diner employee attacked months earlier.
Another had been an elderly man whose motorcycle was stolen.
Brody wasn't a misunderstood kid.
He was part of a pattern.
The sheriff's department began building the case.
Casey was asked to testify.
She was afraid.
Walter knew.
“You don't have to pretend you're not.”
“What if he gets out?”
“Then we deal with that.”
“How?”
“Together.”
Casey looked at him.
“You always say things like that.”