The boy shrugged.
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“If I fix it.”
That brought a much louder reaction.
Even the garage owner laughed.
Not cruelly.
Because the sentence sounded impossible.
The motorcycle had already defeated three dealership technicians, two independent specialists, four club mechanics, the garage owner himself, and several men who had spent longer around Harleys than the boy had been alive.
It was not an old neglected wreck.
It was a beautifully maintained black touring bike that had run perfectly until three weeks earlier.
Then, without warning, it began cutting power under load.
At first only after warming up.
Then while idling.
Then it refused to start unless connected to an external battery.
The obvious parts had been checked.
Battery.
Charging system.
Fuel pressure.
Injectors.
Ignition coils.
Crank-position sensor.
Wiring harness.
Control module.
Ground connections.
Relays.
Everything tested correctly on the bench.
Nothing behaved correctly on the bike.
The giant biker had become less interested in the repair bill than in the insult.
That motorcycle had belonged to him for twenty-five years.
He had rebuilt it twice.
Crossed fourteen states on it.
Ridden it to his wife’s funeral.
Ridden it to his mother’s grave every year afterward.
He trusted the machine in a way he no longer trusted most people.
Then it had simply stopped talking to him.
The boy walked closer.
The giant biker uncrossed his arms.
“Hold up.”
The child stopped.
“You know what this is?”
The boy looked offended.
“A motorcycle.”
More laughter.
The biker almost smiled.
“I can see that.”
The boy pointed.
“Twin-cam motor.”
The room became a little quieter.
The child continued.
“Aftermarket ignition.”
A few men looked at the motorcycle.
Then back at him.
“Different regulator too.”
The garage owner stopped smiling.
The giant biker stared.
“How do you know?”
The boy shrugged.
“My dad works on them.”
“Where?”
The child did not answer.
Instead:
“Can I listen?”
The giant biker glanced toward the garage owner.
The owner shrugged.
“What’s he going to do? Make it more broken?”
One biker laughed.
“Careful. Five grand’s on the table.”
The boy looked toward the money.
“I don’t want all of it.”
The giant biker raised one eyebrow.
“No?”
“No.”
“How much?”
The boy thought.
“Twenty.”
The room erupted again.
The giant biker stared at the boy for several seconds.
Then pointed toward the motorcycle.
“You know what? Go ahead.”
The garage owner immediately stepped forward.
“Nothing electrical gets opened.”
The boy nodded.
“No fuel lines.”
“Okay.”
“No starting it unless one of us says.”