Shook his head.
“Too heavy.”
“It’s youth-rated.”
“Not for her neck.”
He bought another.
Still wrong.
Eventually the team developed a lightweight protective head system more similar to adaptive sports equipment, subject to physician approval.
Nothing moved quickly.
That was the point.
Mark visited the shop three months into the build.
He did not tell Rachel.
He arrived after dark intending to end the project.
Ellie had spent the previous week asking whether Doc had forgotten her.
Mark hated it.
He hated the invisible thing in the garage that had become part of their daughter’s imagined future.
He hated hope when hope created deadlines.
Cole was on the concrete floor beside the frame when Mark entered.
No music.
No riders.
Just tools.
The structure looked strange.
Not yet a motorcycle.
Not exactly a sidecar.
A tubular protective frame surrounded a molded seat angled slightly backward. Adjustable lateral supports waited unfinished. A vibration-isolated subframe connected to a broad independent suspension assembly.
Cole held an angle gauge against the seat mount.
Mark stood watching.
Cole eventually noticed.
“Shop’s closed.”
“I know.”
Cole went back to measuring.
Mark walked closer.
“You said four months.”
“I said nothing about time.”
“Ellie thinks you did.”
“I didn’t.”
“She asks every day.”
Cole stopped.
Mark’s voice became harder.
“She’s getting weaker.”
Cole looked up.
“We know.”
“No.”
“You know numbers.”
“We know mornings are worse.”
“You don’t know what it’s like when she tries to lift a cup and can’t.”
Cole stood.
Mark continued.
“She might not have four months.”
The words struck both men.
Cole looked toward the frame.
Mark saw guilt move across his face.
“Exactly.”
“You want to keep perfecting this thing.”
“She doesn’t need perfect.”
“She needs something before she can’t use it.”
Cole’s jaw tightened.
“She needs safe.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Cole stepped closer.
“More than you think.”
Mark laughed bitterly.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The mysterious biker pain.”
“You think losing somebody gives you special authority over my daughter?”
Cole went completely still.
Mark knew immediately he had crossed something.
But fear kept pushing.
“You made her a promise before you knew anything.”
“You turned her into your project.”
Cole said quietly:
“Leave.”
Mark looked toward the workbench.
A thick folder lay open.
He picked it up despite Cole’s expression.
Inside:
Load calculations.
Failure-mode lists.
Physical therapy notes.
Medical emails.
Emergency extraction diagrams.
Material certifications.
A signed inspection sheet from Frank.
Photographs of test weights.
Brake-distance charts.
A waiver draft.
Questions.
Dozens of questions.
Mark flipped another page.