The biker stared.
Then:
“Yes.”
The mechanics stopped smiling.
The girl stepped closer.
“How?”
“Pressure washer?”
“No.”
“Hose.”
“Soap.”
“Rinse.”
“Seat off?”
“No.”
“Side panels?”
“No.”
She nodded slowly.
The seventeenth mechanic said:
“We already checked for water intrusion.”
“Where?”
“Connectors.”
“Which ones?”
He gestured.
“ECM.”
“Crank sensor.”
“Throttle.”
“Main harness.”
She asked:
“Dry?”
“Yes.”
“When you checked?”
“Yes.”
The girl looked at him.
The answer explained itself.
“When you checked.”
One mechanic folded his arms.
“What are you thinking?”
“Nothing yet.”
She placed the pink toolbox on the floor.
Opened it.
Inside were not toy tools.
A digital multimeter.
Test leads.
Back probes.
Small picks.
Electrical tape.
Heat-shrink.
Connector tools.
A flashlight.
Miniature ratchet.
Several sockets.
And a clear spray bottle with a blue nozzle.
The oldest mechanic laughed.
“You fixing motorcycles or watering flowers?”
The girl did not look at him.
She took the flashlight.
Bent beside the motorcycle.
Followed the main harness from beneath the seat.
The biker watched.
She touched nothing initially.
Just looked.
Her flashlight moved slowly across wiring.
One junction.
Another.
A connector tucked where a section of harness passed near the rear fender support.
She asked:
“Can you start it with the seat up?”
“Yes.”
“Do it.”
The biker did.
The engine started.
The girl waited.
Four seconds.
Dead.
She moved the harness slightly.
“Again.”
Start.
Four seconds.
Dead.
She looked at the connector.
Then at the spray bottle.
The mechanic who had laughed shook his head.
“No.”
The girl asked:
“Why?”
“You’re about to spray water on an electrical system.”
“Yes.”
“That is exactly what we avoid.”
“I know.”
“You don’t spray water on customers’ bikes.”
She looked toward the biker.
“Your bike?”
He nodded.
She held up the bottle.
“I want to mist one connector.”
The biker looked toward the garage owner.
The owner shrugged.
“At this point we’ve replaced half the machine.”
The biker looked back at the girl.
“Do it.”
She started the bike first.
The engine idled.
She sprayed one very light mist across the connector housing.
The engine died instantly.
Not four seconds.
Immediately.
Nobody moved.
The girl looked at the mechanics.
“Again.”
The garage owner leaned closer.
She dried the connector with compressed air.
Started the bike.
It ran.
She misted it again.
Dead.
The garage became silent.
The girl placed the bottle down.
She separated the connector carefully.
Used the flashlight.
Then a small inspection mirror.
“There.”
The oldest mechanic stepped forward.
“Where?”