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.”
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?”