"Get my bike."
Grizz smiled.
"I knew you'd say that."
"And get me Finch's address."
Within minutes, the roar of Jax's Harley-Davidson shook the clubhouse.
Cody looked up.
His father pulled on his gloves.
"Where are you going?"
Jax looked at him.
"To see somebody who might be able to help."
Cody lowered his eyes.
"Another doctor?"
"No."
Jax smiled faintly.
"A mechanic."
Cody looked confused.
"A mechanic?"
"Sometimes," Jax said, mounting the motorcycle, "the people who fix machines understand broken things better than anyone."
Then he twisted the throttle.
The engine thundered.
Jax rode toward the industrial district carrying something he hadn't allowed himself to carry in years.
Hope.
Not much.
Just enough.
But sometimes a revolution begins with less than that.
The Man in the Broken Garage
The industrial district looked forgotten.
Cracked asphalt stretched between abandoned warehouses. Weeds pushed through concrete. Rusted fences leaned toward the streets as if exhausted by decades of standing.
At the end of one neglected road stood Finch's Fine Tuning.
The sign was faded.
Several letters had fallen away.
The corrugated walls were stained orange with rust.
The roof sagged in the middle.
It did not look like a place where miracles were made.
It looked like a place where dreams went to die.
Jax killed the Harley's engine.
Silence settled over the street.
He walked toward the open garage door.
Inside came the hiss of a welding torch.
The smell of hot metal and motor oil filled the air.
Jax stepped inside.
The place was chaotic.
Tools covered nearly every surface.
Stacks of parts were piled against walls.
Hand-drawn schematics were pinned everywhere.
Half-built machines occupied workbenches.
Some looked like motorcycle components.
Others looked like inventions from another century.
There was, however, a strange order beneath the chaos.
Everything had a purpose.
Every pile had a reason.
Every machine was positioned according to some invisible system.
At the center of it all stood a thin man in oil-stained coveralls.
A welding mask rested on his forehead.
He turned when Jax entered.
His eyes widened.
Fear appeared immediately.
"Garage is closed."
Jax stopped.
"You're Sam Finch?"
"Yes."
"Grizz sent me."
Sam looked toward the door.
Then at Jax's leather vest.
Then at the club patch.
Men like Jax had a reputation.
Sam seemed to assume he was about to collect a debt.
"I don't have money," Sam said.
"I'm not here for money."
Sam swallowed.
"Then what do you want?"
Jax placed a canvas bag on the workbench.
"I need something built."
Sam shook his head.
"I don't do weapons."
"It's not a weapon."
Jax opened the bag.
He pulled out Cody's brace.
The heavy medical device landed on the workbench.
Sam stared at it.
Jax pointed toward it.
"My son wears that."
Sam's expression changed.
Slowly, he reached out.
His fingers touched the metal.
He lifted the brace.
The fear vanished from his face.
Something else replaced it.
Concentration.
He examined the hinges.
The straps.
The weight distribution.
The articulation points.
He moved the joints.
"This is terrible."
Jax raised an eyebrow.
"That's what the doctors gave him."
"Doctors aren't always engineers."
Sam turned the brace over.
"Too much weight here."
He pointed.
"This joint fights the natural motion."
Another point.
"The support is static. The leg isn't."
Jax watched him.
Sam was no longer afraid.
He was thinking.
"How would you fix it?"
Sam grabbed a piece of cardboard.
He flipped it over and began drawing.
"We don't support the leg."
He sketched a mechanism.
"We assist it."
Jax leaned closer.
Sam's pencil moved faster.
"Micro pneumatic cylinders."
Another line.
"Titanium frame."
Another.
"Pressure sensors."
Then another.
"Gyroscopic stabilizer."
Jax stared.
Sam looked up.
"The device shouldn't force the leg to move."
He tapped the drawing.
"It should wait for the boy to move, detect what he's trying to do, and help him do it."
Jax felt something tighten in his chest.
"You can build that?"
Sam hesitated.
"I can try."
"How long?"
"With proper materials?"
"Yes."
"Three weeks."