Leo emerged thirty seconds later, hair sticking up, eyes half closed.
“Is it ready?”
Rusty nodded.
Leo woke instantly.
They wheeled the FXR toward the open bay.
Night air entered the garage.
The Oakland streets beyond were almost empty.
Rusty straddled the motorcycle.
He turned the fuel on.
Checked neutral.
Then paused.
Everyone looked at Leo.
The boy frowned.
“What?”
Big Dave pointed beneath the tank.
“You tell him.”
Leo walked closer.
“Switch.”
Rusty reached underneath.
His finger found the hidden toggle.
Click.
Leo looked at the timing setup.
“Now.”
Rusty turned the ignition.
The starter engaged.
The engine rotated once.
Twice.
Then exploded to life.
The sound filled the garage.
Deep.
Uneven for half a second.
Then steady.
A hard mechanical thunder that seemed far too large for the room.
Big Dave shouted.
Milo threw both hands into the air.
Rusty laughed so loudly nobody could hear him over the exhaust.
Leo stood perfectly still.
The FXR idled.
Alive.
After two weeks of silence, Dutch Sullivan’s motorcycle was running.
Rusty blipped the throttle.
The engine answered instantly.
Leo’s face broke into the largest smile Rusty had seen since Arthur died.
Then something unexpected happened.
The boy started crying.
He wiped his face angrily.
Rusty shut the motorcycle down.
The garage fell quiet.
Leo tried to hide the tears.
Big Dave crouched beside him.
“Hey.”
Leo shook his head.
“I’m fine.”
Nobody believed him.
Rusty walked over.
Leo looked embarrassed.
“It sounds like Dad’s bike.”
Rusty understood.
Arthur had owned an old Harley too.
Not the same model.
But the rhythm.
The vibration.
The smell of warm oil and exhaust.
Some memories did not live in photographs.
They lived in sounds.
Rusty placed one hand on Leo’s head.
The boy leaned into him for only a second.
Then pulled away.
“I’m fine.”
Rusty nodded.
“Of course.”
They let the motorcycle cool.
At six-thirty, Rusty called Jim.
He did not say hello.
He held the phone toward the FXR as Big Dave restarted it.
The engine thundered.
Rusty brought the phone back.
Jim was silent.
Then:
“Noon.”
Rusty smiled.
“Come early.”
Jim arrived at ten-thirty with twenty-seven motorcycles.
The street outside Apex Iron Works filled with chrome, black paint, leather, and exhaust.
Leo stood beside Rusty near the open bay.
Jim dismounted.
He removed his helmet.