Her face softened.
They found photographs near the bottom.
One showed Arthur twenty years younger standing beside Dutch’s FXR.
Dutch leaned against the handlebars, grinning.
Arthur stood beside him holding a wrench.
On the back, in Arthur’s handwriting:
HE STILL THINKS FACTORY PARTS ARE OPTIONAL.
Leo held the photograph.
“He looks young.”
His mother laughed.
“He was.”
Another photo showed Arthur and Rusty outside the garage.
Rusty had more hair.
Big Dave saw it later and nearly fell over laughing.
They also found a sealed envelope.
On the front:
LEO — WHEN YOU’RE OLD ENOUGH TO KNOW BETTER THAN ME.
Leo’s mother stared at it.
Rusty stepped away.
“That’s yours.”
Her hands trembled as she opened it.
Inside was a letter.
Arthur had written it months before his death.
Not because he expected to die.
Apparently, he had found the idea amusing.
He wrote that every father eventually became embarrassing and outdated in his child’s eyes, so he wanted to preserve a few pieces of advice before Leo reached that stage.
His mother read aloud.
“Don’t trust a man who says a job is easy before he starts it.”
Leo smiled.
“Don’t buy cheap boots.”
Rusty nodded approvingly.
“Your mother is usually right even when her explanation is longer than necessary.”
She laughed through tears.
“Never repair something you don’t understand just because you’re ashamed to admit you don’t understand it.”
Rusty’s smile faded.
That sounded exactly like Arthur.
The letter continued.
“Ask questions. People who laugh at questions usually don’t know the answer either.”
Leo looked at Rusty.
Rusty pretended to examine the locker.
Then came the final paragraph.
“If you ever learn to work on machines, remember this: the machine doesn’t care about your pride. It only cares whether you paid attention. Listen first. Touch second. And if an old motorcycle tells you every expert in the room is wrong, sometimes the motorcycle is right.”
Leo’s mother could not finish.
Rusty took the letter.
He read the last sentence aloud.
“And if you become anything else, that’s fine too. You never owe me a copy of my life. Just build one you can stand behind.”
Leo stared at the letter for a long time.
“Can I keep it?”
His mother hugged him.
“It was always yours.”
Years passed.
Not quickly.
Not in montage.
Real years.
School.
Homework.
Growth spurts.
Arguments.
Birthday cakes.
Scraped knees.
Bad grades in subjects Leo hated.
Excellent grades in subjects he liked.
A first broken heart Rusty pretended not to notice.
A first motorcycle engine disassembled under supervision.
A first successful carburetor rebuild.
At thirteen, Leo began working officially at Apex Iron Works during summers.
At sixteen, he could diagnose problems faster than some adults but had finally learned not to say that aloud.
At seventeen, Rusty let him rebuild an engine nearly independently.
At eighteen, Leo graduated high school.
His mother wanted college.
Leo wanted the garage.
They compromised.
Community college engineering courses during the week.
Garage work on weekends.
He studied materials science.
Electrical systems.
Mechanical design.
Machining.
Suddenly the things Arthur had understood through instinct and experience gained formulas.
Leo loved both forms of knowledge.
He liked knowing why.
Not just how.
Jim Mercer continued visiting Apex.
Age slowed him.
Not much at first.
Then noticeably.
His beard became almost entirely white.