"You missed it because you were staring at a computer screen, Frank," Garrett said, turning to the shop manager. "Computers don't have ears. Kids who grow up fixing things out of absolute necessity do."
Garrett turned back to his club members, waving his arm to signal that it was time to move out. "Mount up, boys! The storm is rolling in, and we've got a hundred miles of open road to cover before midnight!"
The bikers roared their approval, scrambling toward their respective machines and firing up their engines one by one until the entire parking lot was shaking with mechanical thunder.
Garrett swung his heavy leg back over his black cruiser, feeling the smooth vibration of the perfectly tuned engine beneath him. He looked down at Owen one last time, pulling his leather riding gloves tightly over his knuckles.
"Hey, Owen!" Garrett shouted over the roar of thirty exhaust pipes.
Owen stepped out to the concrete lip of the open bay door. "Yeah, Mr. Steel?"
"What are you doing working as a floor-sweeper for minimum wage?"
Owen shrugged faintly, his hands in his pockets. "It's the only shop in town that would give me a job without a high school diploma."
Garrett snorted, a sharp, dark laugh escaping his chest. He reached into his leather vest, pulled out a thick metal business card embossed with a custom emblem, and flipped it through the air. Owen caught it easily.
"That's the address of my central custom performance shop down in the city," Garrett called out over the thunderous noise. "We build land-speed racers and hundred-thousand-dollar custom choppers. I need a lead diagnostic technician who actually knows how to use his ears instead of a cable. Salary starts at seventy thousand dollars a year, plus dedicated shop space for your own personal builds. You show up on Monday morning at eight o'clock, or I'm coming back here to drag you there myself."
Before Owen could even process the words, Garrett cracked the throttle open, kicked the heavy bike into gear, and roared out of the parking lot, his black cruiser leading the pack of thunderous motorcycles out onto the main highway just as the first cold drops of evening rain began to fall.
The thunder of the departing motorcycles slowly faded into the damp night air, leaving Iron Rail Garage unnaturally quiet.
The rain hit the tin roof in a steady, rhythmic cadence, filling the dark service bays with the cool smell of wet asphalt, ozone, and clean oil.
Frank walked over to the shop's main electrical panel and flipped off half the overhead fluorescent tubes, casting the room into soft, amber shadows. He grabbed two cold bottles of root beer from a small refrigerator tucked in the back corner, walked over to Owen, and handed him one.
Owen was sitting on his overturned red toolbox, staring blankly at the metal card in his hand. The sharp embossed text read: STEEL CUSTOM PERFORMANCE — GARRETT STEEL, PROPRIETOR.
"Seventy grand," Owen whispered, staring at the numbers on the card as if they were written in a strange language. "Frank... is he actually serious about this?"
Frank popped the cap off his soda bottle, took a long drink, and leaned back against a steel support pillar. "Garrett Steel doesn't make jokes about mechanical talent, Owen. He's built an empire out of custom engineering across three states. If he tells you to show up at his shop on Monday morning, he means every word of it."
Owen looked around the garage—at the worn concrete floor, the dirty oil traps, the simple corn-straw broom leaning against the wash bay wall. This place had been his sanctuary for six long months, a quiet haven where he could escape the bleak reality of his tiny rented room and work near the machines he loved, even if his job was only sweeping up after other men.
"I don't have a vehicle to get to the city," Owen said softly, a sudden wave of practical self-doubt creeping into his thoughts. "My dad's old truck doesn't even have a working transmission. The city is forty miles down the interstate."
Frank smiled, setting his drink down on the workbench. He reached deep into his work pants pocket, pulled out a heavy brass key ring, and tossed it across the small gap to Owen.
Owen caught the keys automatically. Attached to the ring was a faded plastic fob with a worn Ford emblem.
"That key fits the green 1994 F-150 parked behind the tire storage rack," Frank said gently. "It's got some rust on the rocker panels and a sticky third gear, but the engine block is solid. I bought it three years ago for spare parts, but it's yours now."