Frankie had promised that Bill's motorcycle would lead the group.
Hundreds of riders were expected.
People were coming from Nevada, Arizona, Oregon, and across California.
Some had known Bill.
Others had only heard stories.
But Frankie had made one promise.
The old Harley would lead.
Jerry picked up the phone.
Before he could dial, the garage door rattled.
A motorcycle passed outside.
Then another.
Then another.
Frankie entered a few seconds later.
He wore faded jeans, black riding boots, a leather vest, and a gray beard that had become almost entirely white.
He looked first at Jerry.
Then Pete.
Then Ray.
Finally, he looked at the Harley.
He stopped.
No one needed to explain.
Frankie removed his gloves.
“How bad?”
Jerry hesitated.
“We haven't solved it.”
“The ride is Saturday.”
“I know.”
“Today is Wednesday.”
“I know.”
Frankie walked slowly toward the Harley.
He placed his palm against the fuel tank.
The garage became silent.
For a moment, he wasn't a veteran rider or an intimidating old biker.
He was simply an old man touching the last physical thing his best friend had left behind.
“She hasn't failed me before,” he whispered.
Jerry lowered his eyes.
“Sometimes machines reach the end.”
Frankie nodded.
“I know.”
A voice came from the back of the garage.
“No.”
Everyone turned.
A boy stood beside the scrap bins.
He was sixteen, perhaps seventeen.
Thin.
Dark-haired.
His oversized gray hoodie was stained with grease.
There was a fading bruise beneath his left eye.
His hands were dirty from work.
His name was Dustin.
Three weeks earlier, Jerry had found him sleeping behind the garage.
Instead of calling the police, Jerry had offered him work.
Sweep floors.
Take out trash.
Organize parts.
In exchange, Dustin could sleep in a small storage room.
Nobody knew much about him.
Nobody had ever seen him ride.
Nobody had ever seen him touch a motorcycle.
Pete stared at him.
“What did you say?”
Dustin nodded toward the Harley.
“She hasn't reached the end.”
Pete laughed.
It wasn't a friendly laugh.
It was the laugh of a man who had spent twenty-three days losing an argument with a machine.
“Kid, we've spent three weeks inside that engine.”
Dustin didn't react.
“You're looking in the wrong place.”
Jerry slowly lowered the phone.
Frankie looked at Dustin.
“What makes you think that?”
Dustin stepped closer.
“Because if the cases were warped, it wouldn't stop in the same place every time.”
Pete's expression changed.
Dustin pointed at the engine.
“You're timing it like it's still factory.”
Pete frowned.
“It is factory.”
Dustin shook his head.
“No.”
He looked at the motorcycle for several seconds.
“Not anymore.”
Frankie stared at him.
“What do you mean?”
Dustin swallowed.
Then he said something that made all three mechanics go silent.
“Someone changed the timing on purpose.”
The Boy Behind the Scrap Bins
Nobody spoke for several seconds.
Then Pete laughed again.
“That's enough.”
Dustin looked at him.
Pete pointed toward the office.
“You've got floors to sweep.”
Dustin didn't move.
Jerry raised a hand.
“Wait.”
Pete turned.
“Jerry—”
“Let him talk.”
Dustin looked surprised.
Jerry had rarely asked him questions beyond work.
Now the old mechanic folded his arms.
“How do you know?”
Dustin hesitated.
“I don't.”
Pete snorted.
“Then don't pretend you do.”
“I said I don't know.”
Dustin looked at the Harley.
“But I know what I'm seeing.”
Frankie pulled a chair closer.
“Sit.”
Dustin did.
Frankie remained standing.
“Start from the beginning.”
Dustin stared at the floor.
“I used to work with my uncle.”
“Doing what?”
“Motorcycles.”
Pete's expression softened slightly.
“How long?”
“Since I was little.”
“Where?”
“Different places.”
“That isn't an answer.”
Dustin looked up.
“My uncle moved around.”
Frankie studied him.
“What happened to him?”
Dustin's fingers tightened around the edge of his sleeve.
“He died.”
The room changed.
Jerry understood grief.
Pete understood it too.
Frankie understood it better than either.
He sat down.
“How?”
“Accident.”
“Motorcycle?”
Dustin nodded.
Frankie didn't ask anything else.
Dustin continued.
“My uncle taught me that engines talk.”
Pete smiled faintly.
“That's what every mechanic says.”
“He meant it differently.”
“How?”
“He said machines never lie. People do.”
Ray leaned against the tool cabinet.
Dustin continued.
“When something breaks, the damage leaves evidence. Scratches. Heat marks. Wear. Metal tells you what happened.”
He pointed toward the Harley.
“That engine doesn't look like it's naturally broken.”
Pete crossed his arms.
“Explain.”
Dustin stood.
He walked toward the motorcycle.
Jerry watched carefully.
Dustin stopped beside the primary cover.
“You said it stops at the same point?”
Pete nodded.
“Every time.”
“Exactly?”
“Almost exactly.”
Dustin crouched.
“Can I?”
Jerry looked at Frankie.
Frankie nodded.
Dustin reached toward the engine.
He rotated the crank slowly.
The movement was stiff.
At one point, the assembly stopped.
Dustin marked the position mentally.
He rotated backward.
Then forward.
Again.
Same point.
He looked at Pete.
“See?”
Pete frowned.