Not because he disliked remembering him.
Because other people always reacted incorrectly.
Sympathy.
Awkward silence.
Softened voices.
Caleb did not want any of it.
Rourke nodded once.
“Sorry.”
Caleb looked toward the motorcycle.
“Can I help clean the spill?”
Rourke almost smiled.
“You trying to get hired after arguing with me?”
“I came here for work.”
“That’s ambitious.”
“I need money.”
The red-bearded biker said:
“At least he’s honest.”
Rourke ignored him.
“How old?”
“Sixteen.”
“Know anything about engines?”
“A little.”
“A little means nothing.”
“I can change oil.”
“So can half the planet.”
“Brake pads.”
“Still basic.”
“Rebuild a carburetor.”
That caught attention.
Rourke tilted his head.
“What carburetor?”
“Depends.”
“Don't give me that.”
Caleb shrugged.
“Holley four-barrel. Keihin CV. Mikuni round-slide.”
The red-bearded biker looked interested.
Rourke folded his arms again.
“Motorcycle transmission?”
Caleb hesitated.
“Some.”
“What does some mean?”
“I helped rebuild a five-speed when I was ten.”
Rourke laughed.
“Sure.”
Caleb said nothing.
Rourke pointed toward the black cruiser.
“Then tell me why that fuel line failed.”
Caleb looked.
He moved closer but stopped before touching anything.
The bike was expensive.
Custom paint.
Chrome everywhere.
Aftermarket intake.
The fuel line had been routed tightly between the tank outlet and carburetor assembly.
Caleb crouched.
“Who changed this?”
Nobody answered.
He pointed.
“Line’s too short.”
The red-bearded biker crouched beside him.
Caleb continued.
“It’s pulling against the fitting.”
Rourke said:
“The clamp split.”
“Because the hose was under tension.”
The red-bearded man touched the line carefully.
“He’s right.”
Rourke frowned.
Caleb pointed again.
“And it rubs here.”
A faint polished mark showed where the fuel line touched a metal bracket.
“Engine vibration would keep wearing it.”
The red-bearded biker looked at Rourke.
“Definitely right.”
Rourke looked annoyed with both of them.
“You memorize service manuals for fun?”
Caleb stood.
“My dad taught me.”
There it was again.
His dad.
Rourke rubbed his beard.
“What was his name?”
Caleb looked toward him.
“Why?”
“Curious.”
“Daniel.”
The name meant nothing to Rourke.
At least Caleb thought so.
“Daniel Mercer?”
“Yes.”
Rourke shook his head.
“Don't know him.”
Caleb nodded.
“Most people don't.”
He bent to grab an absorbent pad.
As he did, the chain around his neck slipped free.
The pendant dropped outside his hoodie.
Small.
Silver.
Worn almost smooth from years of contact against skin.
A tiny open-end wrench.
Nothing expensive.
Nothing impressive.
Except for the symbol engraved into its handle.
Rourke saw it.
Every trace of annoyance disappeared from his face.
Caleb did not notice immediately.
He was reaching for the pad.
Rourke stepped closer.
“Hold on.”
Caleb looked up.
“What?”
Rourke stared at the pendant.
“Where did you get that?”
Caleb looked down.
His hand closed around the wrench instinctively.
“My dad.”
Rourke’s face changed again.
The red-bearded biker had noticed now too.