“Okay.”
“You burn yourself, your parents will own this building.”
The boy nodded seriously.
“My dad says that too.”
The giant biker glanced toward the open bay.
“Where is your dad?”
The boy looked outside.
Then down.
“Nearby.”
That answer should have raised more questions than it did.
Instead, the giant biker stepped aside.
The boy approached the Harley.
For the first minute, he touched nothing.
He walked around it.
Slowly.
The men watched.
One biker whispered:
“This is ridiculous.”
The older biker beside him replied:
“So was letting you try yesterday.”
The first man glared.
The boy crouched near the right side.
Looked beneath the seat.
Then the side cover.
He stood.
“Can you start it?”
The garage owner looked toward the giant biker.
The giant biker nodded.
The garage owner turned the ignition.
Pressed the starter.
The engine cranked.
Caught.
Ran badly for four seconds.
Then died.
The boy did not look at the engine.
He looked toward the headlight.
“Again.”
The garage owner raised an eyebrow.
The giant biker nodded.
Again.
Crank.
Catch.
Rough idle.
Dead.
The boy asked:
“Did the light get brighter before it stopped?”
The garage owner frowned.
“What?”
“The headlight.”
A mechanic near the tool chest said:
“No.”
Another:
“Maybe.”
The boy moved to the left side.
“Again.”
The giant biker laughed.
“You ordering everybody around now?”
The child looked up.
“Do you want it fixed?”
Nobody laughed that time.
The giant biker stared at him.
Then grinned slowly.
“Start it.”
The engine ran.
The boy watched.
Four seconds.
Dead.
He walked toward the rear.
Then looked at the floor.
“Who changed the rear shocks?”
The garage owner answered.
“Last winter.”
“Before the problem?”
“Months before.”
The boy nodded.
Then:
“Who painted the frame?”
The room became quiet.
The giant biker looked toward him.
“What?”
“The frame.”
“Powder-coated two years ago.”
“All of it?”
“Yes.”
The boy looked under the seat again.
“Dad says new paint makes bad grounds look good.”
The garage owner’s expression changed.
“We checked grounds.”
The boy nodded.
“Okay.”
The answer somehow sounded more insulting than disagreement.
The mechanic stepped forward.
“Kid, we checked every major ground on that motorcycle.”
The boy said:
“Maybe.”
“Not maybe.”
“We did.”
The child glanced toward him.
“Then I’m wrong.”
The mechanic folded his arms.
“Good.”
The boy crouched again.
The giant biker watched.
“You think they missed something.”
The boy shook his head.
“I think the bike does.”
That sentence made the older biker near the booth laugh.