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Nothing else.
One day a new apprentice stored lunch there.
Leo saw.
For half second, anger.
Then smiled.
Locker is locker.
Arthur would mock shrine.
The FXR stayed in working bay.
Not display.
At twenty-eight, Leo married? Could include. He met maybe teacher or electrician, not relevant. If romance not premise, minimal. He married a paramedic named? Project says role labels, no names? We already names. Fine. Could avoid personal name. He married a pediatric nurse? Maybe too neat. Let's not spend.
Maria eventually retired from hospital food services.
Leo bought her small house? Maybe no magical wealth. He helped with mortgage.
Jim grew older.
At seventy-one, his knees prevented long rides.
He hated.
Leo modified a trike for him? Perhaps Jim would hate but later accept.
One morning Jim arrived shop with cane.
“FXR?”
Leo shook head.
“No.”
Jim glared.
“You don't decide.”
“It’s my bike.”
“You little—”
“You cannot hold it upright safely.”
Jim furious.
Silence.
Then Leo said:
“Remember what Dutch wrote.”
“Road doesn't care who you are.”
Jim looked away.
Months later he admitted.
Leo let him start bike and sit supported.
Not ride.
Boundaries.
Jim eventually stopped riding entirely.
He died at seventy-nine.
At funeral, Leo brought FXR?
Maybe not inside. At memorial ride, he rode it behind Jim’s own motorcycle carried? Let's handle simply: Jim requested no big ride. “I spent life making noise. Let funeral be quiet.” His family honored.
Leo visited grave later on FXR alone.
He shut engine off.
Sat.
“You still owe labor.”
Then left.
Rusty lived longer than expected.
At eighty-two, still came shop.
Complained.
New electric motorcycles fascinated Leo.
Rusty called appliances.
Leo hired tech specializing in electric drivetrain.
Rusty felt betrayed.
“Arthur would hate.”
Leo said:
“Arthur taught listen to machine now, not what manual thinks it is.”
Rusty grumbled.
“Using dead man against me.”
“Yes.”
Technology changed.
Shop survived because it did not become museum.
They serviced vintage and modern.
The FXR remained odd hybrid.
One day, when Leo was thirty-seven, a documentary producer contacted.
Wanted story of “eight-year-old genius who saved legendary Harley.”
Leo declined.
Producer offered money.
Leo said:
“I didn't save it alone.”
“We can include mechanics.”
“You'll title with kid.”
“That's hook.”
“No.”
The producer eventually made segment without access using public memorial photos.
It exaggerated.
Claimed Leo single-handedly rebuilt engine.
Claimed mechanics laughed for weeks.
Claimed Jim threatened to destroy shop.
Claimed locker contained “the only surviving part in America.”
Leo watched thirty seconds.
Turned off.
His teenage daughter? Suppose he has daughter, asked:
“Why not correct?”
“Internet doesn't pay correction rates.”
She laughed.
“Were you really eight?”
“Yes.”
“Did you really know timing marks?”