“That isn’t what I asked.”
“No.”
The biker looked at the bike again.
It had been with him for more than twenty years.
Not in its current form.
Almost nothing mechanical remained original.
Engine rebuilt twice.
Suspension upgraded.
Paint changed.
Seat changed.
Wheels replaced.
Bars changed.
Electrical system modernized in stages.
But the frame remained.
And beneath every modification was still the first motorcycle one particular mechanic had ever built specifically for him.
That mattered more than the market value.
The garage owner knew it.
That was why he had kept accepting one more hour.
One more theory.
One more test.
The biker reached toward the ignition.
“Try it.”
The mechanic frowned.
“Again?”
“Again.”
He turned the key.
The engine came alive immediately.
Deep idle.
Strong.
Clean.
One second.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Dead.
The biker stared.
The youngest mechanic swore quietly.
Then a voice came from the open garage door.
“Can you do that again?”
Every man in the room turned.
A fifteen-year-old girl stood at the entrance carrying a small pink metal toolbox.
For several seconds no one said anything.
She looked younger than fifteen.
Partly because of the toolbox.
Partly because her straight brown hair had been pulled into a neat low ponytail that made her face look even more serious.
She wore an oversized light-gray work shirt with the sleeves rolled above her elbows, dark work pants, and worn brown boots.
The shirt was old.
Too large for her.
Across one chest pocket was an embroidered family surname almost faded white from washing.
One of the mechanics laughed first.
Not cruelly at first.
More from disbelief.
“You lost?”
The girl shook her head.
“No.”
“You looking for somebody?”
“The bike.”
That got another laugh.
The garage owner appeared from the office.
He knew the girl.
Not well.
She had visited twice before with a retired farmer who occasionally brought old motorcycle parts for repair.
The girl repaired lawn equipment, dirt bikes, and small engines behind her mother’s house.
She was known locally as the teenager who would rather listen to an engine miss than attend a school dance.
The garage owner said:
“What are you doing here?”
“I heard about the bike.”
“From who?”
“My shop teacher.”
One mechanic groaned.
“Oh, good.”
The girl ignored him.
She looked at the motorcycle.
“Can I hear it?”
The seventeenth mechanic smiled.
“We’ve been hearing it for two days.”
The girl looked at him.
“I wasn’t asking you.”
That ended some of the laughter.