Now seventeen mechanics had touched his bike.
The seventeenth stood beside the lift with both arms crossed.
“I’m telling you,” the mechanic said, “whatever’s wrong isn’t in the normal diagnostic path.”
The biker stared at him.
“That sounds like mechanic language for ‘I don’t know.’”
The man sighed.
“It is.”
At least he was honest.
Three other mechanics stood behind him.
One drank coffee.
Another leaned against a toolbox.
The youngest had started taking photos of connectors simply because everyone had reached the point where they no longer trusted memory.
The biker rubbed his beard.
“How much?”
“For what?”
“For all this.”
The mechanic looked at the pile of replaced components.
“We’ll work something out.”
“That means expensive.”
“Yes.”
“Did any of those parts need replacing?”
Silence.
The biker’s eyebrows lifted.
The mechanic finally said:
“Some had age.”
“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?”