His name was Brix Deodato.
He stopped just inside the door.
“Sir?”
Reed turned.
“I need to ask something.”
Reed sighed.
“What?”
“Is there a bathroom I could use?”
Reed looked toward the back.
“Go across the street. Sinclair has one.”
“I asked them.”
“And?”
“They said no.”
Reed frowned.
He had seen hundreds of teenagers pass through Cody.
Most were tourists.
Some were trouble.
Some were lost.
This kid looked different.
There was no arrogance in him.
No swagger.
Only exhaustion.
Reed noticed the bruise.
Then the canvas bag.
Then the boy's shoes.
“Back through that door,” Reed said.
The boy blinked.
“Sir?”
“Turn left. Bathroom's down the hall.”
“Thank you.”
The boy started walking.
He passed the Shovelhead.
Then stopped.
He looked at it.
Not casually.
Not like someone looking at a cool motorcycle.
He studied it.
His eyes moved from the engine to the wiring.
Then to the ignition module.
Then down toward the frame.
Finally, his gaze stopped on the ground strap.
He tilted his head.
“Sir?”
Reed closed his eyes.
“What?”
“Is that your ground strap?”
Reed looked at him.
“Kid, bathroom.”
“Yes, sir.”
The boy hesitated.
“I'm sorry.”
“Go.”
Brix pointed toward the motorcycle.
“The strap isn't seated on bare metal.”
Reed stopped.
“What?”
“The frame is powder-coated.”
Reed stared at the strap.
Brix continued.
“It looks like you cleaned it, but the paint is still underneath.”
Reed slowly walked toward him.
“What are you talking about?”
“The motorcycle can spin because the starter has enough connection through the other components.”
He pointed.
“But the ignition needs a proper ground. That bolt is tight, but the strap isn't actually grounded to the frame.”
Reed stared at the boy.
Brix swallowed.
“I could be wrong.”
Reed crouched.
He looked at the ground strap.
The powder coat was fresh.
Perfectly applied.
Beautiful.
And completely electrically insulating.
His heart began beating faster.
“What's your name?”
“Brix.”
“Last name?”
“Deodato.”
“How old are you?”
“Fifteen.”
Reed slowly stood.
“Brix, come here.”
The boy approached.
Reed handed him a wrench.
“Show me.”
Brix knelt.
He loosened the ground strap.
Then he looked underneath.
“There.”
He pointed.
“See?”
Reed crouched beside him.
The mounting surface was covered in silver powder coat.
Reed had done that himself.
He remembered.
June.
Two coats.
Sanded.
Cured.
Perfect.
He had never thought about the ground strap.
Brix looked up.
“Do you have a Scotch-Brite pad?”
Reed stared.
Then handed him one.
“And brake cleaner?”
Reed handed him that too.
Brix carefully cleaned a small circle on the frame.
Bare metal.
About the size of a dime.
He sprayed it.
Wiped it.
Reattached the strap.
Then tightened the bolt.
“Try it.”
Reed didn't move.
He stared at the motorcycle.
Then he climbed on.
Fuel petcock.
Choke.
Ignition.
Kick.
The engine exploded into life.
The sound filled the garage.
Deep.
Rough.
Alive.
Reed didn't touch the throttle.
He simply sat there.
The motorcycle settled into an idle.
Not a rough idle.
Not an uncertain idle.
A perfect idle.
The exact idle Reed remembered from his brother.
For eleven seconds, Reed listened.
Then he shut it off.
The silence that followed felt enormous.
He climbed off.
Walked toward Brix.
The boy stood holding the shop rag.
Reed stopped in front of him.
“Where do you live?”
Brix looked at the floor.
“Sir?”
“Where do you live?”
“Behind Wanda's Diner.”
“Since when?”
“April.”
Reed looked at the bruise.
Then at the canvas bag.
“Brix.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Sit down.”
The boy sat.
Reed walked into his office.
He picked up the phone.
There was one person he needed to call.
Odom Kestrel.
President of the Wind River Riders.
Retired sheriff's deputy.
Sixty-two years old.
And Cormac's closest friend.
Reed dialed.
“Odom.”
There was silence on the other end.
Then:
“Please tell me.”
“The bike started.”
Another silence.
“Say that again.”
“The bike started.”
“How?”
Reed looked through the office window at Brix.
“A kid.”
“What kid?”
“That's the long story.”
Reed looked at the clock.
Then at Brix.
“But here's the short one.”
He lowered his voice.
“I've got a fifteen-year-old boy sitting in my shop. He fixed in four minutes what three specialists couldn't fix in eleven weeks.”
Odom said nothing.
Reed continued.
“And he's sleeping behind Wanda's Diner.”
Another pause.
“He's also got a bruise on his face.”
Odom's voice changed.
“I'm coming.”
“Good.”
“How long?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
Odom hung up.
Reed returned to the office.
Brix was staring at the floor.
“You hungry?”
Brix looked up.
“A little.”
“When did you last eat?”
The boy hesitated.
“Tuesday.”
Reed stared at him.
It was Thursday.
He walked to the refrigerator.
“There's chili.”
Brix shook his head.
“I don't want to take your food.”
“Kid.”
“Yes?”
“It's chili.”
Brix slowly smiled.
“Okay.”
And while Brix ate his first real meal in two days, Reed stood by the window and looked at the Shovelhead.
For the first time since Cormac died, Reed felt something other than grief.
He felt possibility.