“YOU'RE TIMING IT WRONG!”
The words came from the smallest person inside Apex Iron Works, and for the first time in fourteen days, every mechanic in the Oakland garage stopped working.
Eight-year-old Leo Hayes stood beside a dented metal toolbox, holding a wooden broom nearly as tall as himself. His oversized charcoal-gray T-shirt was stained with grease and torn near the shoulder. His faded jeans had been patched at both knees, and one of his sneakers had a hole near the toe.
There was dirt across his cheek and dried engine oil beneath his fingernails. His messy light-brown hair fell into his eyes, but he didn't move to push it away. Instead, he stood with one skinny arm extended, pointing directly toward the exposed engine of a black 1986 Harley-Davidson FXR.
Six mechanics stared at him.
The oldest, Rusty Cole, slowly raised his head from behind the motorcycle.
Rusty was fifty-two years old, with a thick graying beard, enormous forearms, and a black baseball cap bearing the words APEX IRON WORKS. He'd spent thirty-one years repairing motorcycles, rebuilding engines, and rescuing machines other shops had already written off.
He was also a man whose patience had finally reached its limit.
“What did you say, kid?”
Leo swallowed.
“Your timing marks are wrong.”
For a moment, nobody moved.
Then Big Dave Mercer, a towering mechanic with tattooed arms and a permanently stained work shirt, burst into laughter.
“Oh, that's rich!”
Another mechanic shook his head.
“Rusty, you've been doing it wrong all these years. The kid with the broom finally figured it out.”
Two more men chuckled.
Leo's face turned red.
But he didn't lower his hand.
Rusty wiped his fingers on a shop rag and stared at the boy.
“Leo, we've checked the timing six different ways.”
“I know.”
“We've replaced the ignition components.”
“I know.”
“We've rebuilt the carburetor, tested the charging system, checked compression, and gone through every electrical connection we can find.”
Leo nodded.
“I watched.”
Rusty's expression hardened.
“Then you know we've done everything the service manual says to do.”
The boy looked toward the engine.
Then whispered something that made the laughter stop.
“That's the problem.”
Rusty frowned.
“What?”
Leo pointed toward the timing assembly.
“The manual is for the engine Harley built. This isn't that engine anymore.”
For several seconds, the garage fell completely silent.
Then the boy added, “You're twelve degrees off.”
Rusty slowly stood.
Big Dave stopped smiling.
A younger mechanic named Tyler looked toward the motorcycle and then back at Leo.