Garrett's father had built the engine himself in 1971.
The motorcycle had crossed state after state with Garrett behind the handlebars.
It wasn't merely transportation.
It was family.
It was memory.
It was blood.
Nobody touched Black Fury without permission.
Nobody sat on it.
Nobody even leaned against it.
So when the engine suddenly died on Interstate 94, Garrett refused to believe it was finished.
He called Dale Prescott first.
Dale owned the largest garage in Wayne County and had forty years of experience.
He arrived with two assistants, a professional diagnostic scanner, and enough equipment to make the motorcycle's old mechanical system look prehistoric.
Thirty minutes later, Dale stepped away.
“I can't isolate it,” he admitted. “I'd need to tear the engine down at my shop. Two or three weeks.”
Garrett stared at him.
“You're telling me you can't fix it?”
“I'm telling you it's complicated.”
“Get out.”
Dale left.
Then Nolan Briggs arrived.
Nolan was considered one of Michigan's finest vintage Harley specialists.
He knew old motorcycles better than almost anyone.
He spent forty-five minutes dismantling and inspecting the carburetor.
He cleaned every jet.
Checked every gasket.
Reassembled everything.
Then he kicked the starter.
Once.
Twice.
Six times.
Nothing.
“The carburetor is clean,” Nolan finally said. “The engine is done.”
Garrett grabbed his shirt.
“You're supposed to be the best.”
“I am the best,” Nolan replied. “And I'm telling you she's dead.”
Garrett shoved him away.
Then came Curtis Wade.
Former aerospace engineer.
Motorcycle consultant.
Laptop.
Voltage meter.
Current probe.
Curtis ran diagnostics for twenty minutes.
Then he closed the computer.
“Full engine replacement. Eight thousand dollars minimum. Maybe twelve.”
Garrett's face hardened.
Three experts.
Three failures.
That was when he placed five thousand dollars on the table.
“Anyone who gets her running in one hour gets the money.”
Nobody stepped forward.
Until Owen walked past.
The Boy Nobody Saw
Owen wasn't there because of the motorcycle.
He wasn't there because of the money.
He was simply walking home.
He had spent six hours working at a car wash on Livernois Avenue.
Before that, he had worked four hours stocking shelves at a gas station.
Eleven dollars were in his pocket.