“Yes.”
“And if Rusty tells you move, you move.”
Leo glanced at Rusty.
“Depends.”
Maria’s eyes narrowed.
“Leo.”
“Yes.”
Jim laughed.
She looked at him.
“Don't encourage.”
He stopped.
“Yes, ma’am.”
That night, the adults installed custom pushrods.
They set timing based on Arthur’s diagram.
They preserved hidden switch.
They restored older ignition pieces that had been replaced unnecessarily.
At 11:43 p.m., Rusty pressed starter.
The FXR turned.
Coughed.
Almost caught.
Then stopped.
Dave swore.
Rusty tried again.
Nothing.
Battery voltage fell.
Jim, who had stayed, leaned against wall.
“Why?”
Dave checked.
“Timing close.”
“Spark?”
“Now yes.”
“Fuel?”
“Yes.”
Rusty stared.
Something else.
Always something else.
He looked toward basement stairs.
The boy was gone home.
“Don't say it.”
Dave looked.
“What?”
Rusty sighed.
“We need kid.”
Thursday afternoon, Leo came through garage door before school backpack completely off shoulder.
“What happened?”
Rusty pointed motorcycle.
“Almost started.”
Leo dropped backpack.
“Show.”
Maria had made him promise homework first.
He opened math worksheet on shop counter.
Rusty stared.
“You’re really doing math now?”
Leo nodded.
“Mom said.”
Jim, sitting nearby drinking coffee, said:
“Do math.”
Rusty looked betrayed.
Leo finished twelve multiplication problems while grown men waited around motorcycle.
At 3:27, he closed worksheet.
“Okay.”
Dave muttered:
“Finally.”
Leo walked around bike.
“Try.”
Rusty pressed.
The engine turned.
A hard metallic cough.
Leo raised hand.
“Stop.”
Everyone froze.
“What?”
Leo crouched.
He listened.
“Again, just little.”
Rusty tapped starter.
Leo frowned.
“Something dragging.”
Dave said:
“Starter?”
Leo shook head.
“Not like starter.”
“How would you know?”
Leo gave him look.
Dave sighed.
“Right.”
They checked.