“Yes.”
He pointed to the cardboard exhaust.
“Stock pipes?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Stock ones sound boring.”
The biker looked toward the mother.
She shrugged.
“I didn’t teach her any of this.”
He looked back at the girl.
“Start it.”
She blinked.
“What?”
“Let’s hear it.”
The girl straightened.
Twisted the plastic grip.
“VROOOOOOM.”
The biker listened seriously.
She made a shifting sound with her mouth.
Then another burst.
He nodded.
“Running rich.”
The girl laughed.
Her mother covered her face.
That was the first conversation.
The next afternoon, the biker stepped outside before the girl reached the shop.
He had a rag in one hand.
He looked at the motorcycle.
“You moved the exhaust.”
The girl grinned.
“I changed the angle.”
“Why?”
“Looks faster.”
“Does it go faster?”
“No.”
“Then that’s cosmetic nonsense.”
The girl gasped.
Her mother laughed from the sidewalk.
The biker looked toward her.
Again, barely a smile.
After that, the biker began waving.
Not large waves.
Two fingers.
Sometimes only a nod.
The girl considered this a major victory.
Then, one afternoon, she arrived and found the garage closed.
She waited.
Five minutes.
Ten.
No biker.
The next day, closed again.
The girl became worried.
Third day.
Still closed.
“He’s probably busy,” her mother said.
“Doing what?”
“I don’t know.”
“His job is in there.”
“He could be sick.”
The girl’s face changed.
Her mother immediately regretted saying it.
“He’s probably not sick.”
“What if he is?”
“He has friends.”
“How do you know?”
“Motorcycle people travel in groups.”
The girl looked unconvinced.
On the fourth day, lights appeared inside the garage.
No door opening.
No customers.
Only grinding.
Metal.
A drill.
Occasionally the sharp buzz of welding.
The girl pressed her face against the living-room window.
“He’s building something.”
Her mother folded laundry.
“How do you know?”
“Sounds like a grinder.”
“You know what a grinder sounds like?”
The girl looked offended.
“Mom.”
“Right.”
“Sorry.”
Another day passed.
Then three.
Then ten.
The cardboard motorcycle waited in the driveway.
The girl still rode it.
But every time she passed the garage she slowed.
The biker never appeared.
The mother began to wonder too.
Then, two weeks after the garage first closed, someone knocked on their door at 6:18 p.m.
The girl answered.
She wore pajamas.
One pigtail higher than the other.