"Tell me she's breathing."
Jerry lowered his eyes.
Frankie didn't move.
"How bad?"
Jerry took a breath.
"We haven't solved it."
Frankie's jaw tightened.
"The ride is Saturday."
"I know."
"Today is Wednesday."
"I know."
Frankie walked toward the Harley.
He placed his hand on the tank.
The garage became very quiet.
For a moment, Frankie wasn't a large, intimidating biker standing beneath fluorescent lights.
He was simply an old man touching something that reminded him of a dead friend.
"She hasn't failed me before," he whispered.
Pete looked away.
Jerry said gently, "Frankie, sometimes machines reach the end."
Frankie nodded.
"I know."
He kept his hand on the tank.
Then a voice came from the back of the garage.
"No."
Everyone turned.
A boy stood beside the scrap bins.
He was sixteen.
Maybe seventeen at most.
Thin enough that his hoodie seemed too large for him.
His dark hair was uneven, as though he'd cut it himself.
There was grease beneath his fingernails.
A faded bruise colored one side of his cheek.
He had been sleeping around the garage for several weeks.
Jerry had found him one morning curled beneath a piece of cardboard behind the loading area.
Instead of calling the police, Jerry had offered him a simple arrangement.
Sweep the floors.
Take out trash.
Keep the place clean.
In exchange, Jerry let him sleep in a small storage room.
The boy's name was Dustin.
Nobody had ever seen him touch a motorcycle.
Nobody had ever asked him to.
Pete looked at him.
"What did you say?"
Dustin nodded toward the Harley.
"She hasn't reached the end."
Pete laughed once.
Not because it was funny.
Because he couldn't believe what he was hearing.
"Kid, we've spent three weeks inside that engine."
Dustin didn't argue.
He simply said:
"You're looking in the wrong place."
The laughter disappeared.
Frankie turned toward him.
"What makes you think that?"
Dustin looked at the motorcycle.
"Because if the cases were warped, it wouldn't stop in the same place every time."
Pete's eyes narrowed.
He glanced at Jerry.
Then back at the boy.
Dustin continued.
"It isn't broken."
He hesitated.
"It's confused."
Nobody spoke.
Frankie stared at him.
Then he asked the question that would change both their lives.
"What do you mean?"
Dustin stepped closer.
"You're timing it like it's still factory."
Pete's eyes hardened.
"It is factory."
Dustin shook his head.
"No."
He pointed toward the engine.
"That motorcycle hasn't been factory for a very long time."
The Boy Nobody Noticed
Pete folded his arms.
"You've been sweeping floors for three weeks."
Dustin nodded.
"And somehow you've become an expert on fifty-year-old Harleys?"
"No."
The answer came so quickly that Pete almost lost his irritation.
Dustin looked at the motorcycle.
"I became an expert on one."
Jerry raised an eyebrow.
"Which one?"
Dustin swallowed.
"Mine."
Ray snorted.
"You own a Harley?"
Dustin shook his head.
"Not anymore."
Something in the way he said it silenced Ray.
Frankie studied the boy.
There were things Dustin didn't say.
The way he avoided eye contact.
The way he always kept his left hand tucked inside his hoodie pocket.
The way he slept lightly enough that the smallest sound from the garage woke him.
Frankie had seen that kind of behavior before.
Not from criminals.
From people who had learned not to trust the world.
"Where'd you learn engines?" Frankie asked.
Dustin hesitated.
"My dad."
"What did he do?"
"Mechanic."
"Where?"
Dustin looked down.
"Different places."
Pete rolled his eyes.
"That's specific."
Dustin didn't react.
Frankie walked around the Harley.
"You said the timing was wrong."
"Yeah."
"Explain."
Dustin crouched beside the motorcycle.
He didn't touch anything.
He studied the primary cover, the rear cylinder, the ignition housing.
Then he looked at the handlebars.
"What's the story behind this bike?"
Frankie frowned.
"What?"
"The story."
"There isn't one."
Dustin looked at him.
Frankie sighed.
"Fine. There is one."
He rested both hands on his belt.
"This belonged to my friend."
"Wild Bill?"
The name seemed to hit Frankie physically.
His eyes narrowed.
"How do you know that name?"
Dustin pointed toward the tank.
There was a small metal plate mounted beneath the seat.
Most people never noticed it.
Frankie had forgotten it was there.
W.H.H.
Three letters.
Bill's initials.
Dustin said quietly, "I saw them."
Frankie stared at him.
"You've been looking at my bike."
"I've been looking at everything in this garage."
Jerry smiled faintly.
"That's what I've been paying him for."
Dustin continued.
"Your friend changed the ignition."
Pete shook his head.
"Not according to the records."
"Records can be wrong."
Pete's expression darkened.
Dustin pointed toward the timing cover.
"That isn't original."
Pete stepped closer.
"What?"
"The mounting marks."
Pete crouched.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Ray brought over a flashlight.
The three mechanics stared at the cover.
Dustin was right.
There were tiny scoring marks around two of the mounting points.
Jerry's face changed.
"Pete."
"I see it."
"You've had this bike for thirty years," Pete said to Frankie. "Did Bill ever have ignition work done?"