The old biker's hands were wrapped around the boy's jacket before anyone in the garage understood what was happening. One moment, the fifteen-year-old was standing beside a black Harley-Davidson Shovelhead, looking down at the engine with quiet concentration. The next, a massive, tattooed man with shoulder-length silver hair had seized him by the front of his worn olive-green jacket and pulled him forward until their faces were barely a foot apart. The boy's worn sneakers scraped against the concrete, and a heavy silence settled over the motorcycle repair shop.
"Who the hell told you to touch my bike?" the biker demanded.
His voice carried through the open garage door and out into the afternoon sunlight. Three mechanics stood near the workbench, their expressions ranging from surprise to discomfort, while several members of the motorcycle club watched from the shadows. Nobody stepped forward. The old biker had a reputation for losing his temper when someone crossed a line, and the black Shovelhead on the hydraulic lift was a line nobody was supposed to cross.
The boy swallowed but didn't struggle. He was thin, with closely curled black hair, tired brown eyes, and the hollow cheeks of someone who hadn't been eating regularly. His faded jeans were torn at one knee, and the zipper on his jacket had been replaced with a piece of wire. There was dirt beneath his fingernails, but his hands remained open at his sides.
"I didn't touch it," he said.
"Then what are you doing standing next to it?"
The boy glanced past the biker's shoulder toward the engine. Something about his expression irritated the older man even more. There was no fear in his eyes now, only the distracted concentration of someone trying to solve a problem that everyone else had already abandoned.
"I heard what it was doing when you tried to start it."
The biker tightened his grip.
"You heard what?"
"The clicking. And the way the lights faded."
One of the mechanics shifted uncomfortably behind them.
"Kid," the biker growled, "you have about three seconds to explain why you're in my garage."
The boy raised one hand slowly, pointing toward the lower portion of the motorcycle's frame.
"Is that your ground strap?"
For a moment, nobody moved.
The biker followed the boy's finger. A short length of dark, braided cable hung beside the engine, almost invisible against the black metal frame. Its end rested just above a mounting point, and a circular mark in the dust showed where something had recently been attached. The biker had spent most of the morning staring at that motorcycle, but he hadn't noticed it.
"What did you say?" he asked.
"Your ground strap," the boy repeated. "It doesn't look connected."