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.
The biker looked toward her.
“Why?”
The girl shrugged.
“I want to hear what it does.”
“You think seventeen mechanics missed something?”
“I don’t know.”
Another mechanic laughed.
“That’s confidence.”
“No.”
She looked at the bike.
“That’s why I want to hear it.”
The biker studied her.
He saw no performance in her expression.
No attempt to impress.
She actually wanted the sound.
He gestured toward the ignition.
“Start it.”
The mechanic hesitated.
The biker looked at him.
“She can listen.”
The engine started.
The girl did not look at the diagnostic screen.
She closed her eyes.
The idle settled.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Click.
Dead.
Her eyes opened.
“Again.”
One mechanic shook his head.
“You got something from that?”
“No.”
“Then why again?”
“Because I want to know if the time changes.”
The biker turned the ignition.
Again.
Start.
Four seconds.
Dead.
The girl frowned.
“Again.”
The garage owner stepped closer.
“Battery’s fine.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“Starter speed.”
He stared.
The biker started it a third time.
Exactly the same.
The girl looked beneath the seat.
Then toward the mechanic.
“Does it ever keep running?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Sometimes after it sits overnight.”
“How long?”
“Could be ten minutes.”
“Could be twenty.”
“Then dies?”
“Sometimes.”
“Always four seconds here?”
“Today.”
She looked toward the biker.
“When did it start?”
“Last week.”
“What happened before?”
“Nothing.”
She waited.
He frowned.
“Nothing broke.”
She nodded.
“That isn’t what I asked.”
The youngest mechanic smiled.
The biker noticed.
He looked back through memory.
Ride Sunday.
Home.
Monday morning cleaned the bike.
Tuesday—
The girl asked:
“Did you wash it?”
He stopped.
“What?”
“Before this started.”