The treasurer closed the folder.
"What about the workshop?"
The president looked through the office window.
Outside, the teenager was folding the empty sandwich wrapper into a small square. He seemed reluctant to throw it away, as though keeping things was safer than assuming there would always be more.
"We'll find another way," the president said.
He wished he sounded more certain.
The boy left just before sunset.
He didn't announce that he was leaving. He simply stood, thanked the nearest club member for the food, and walked down the sidewalk with his backpack hanging from one shoulder. The president saw him through the garage window and stepped outside.
"Hey."
The teenager stopped.
"Where are you going?"
"Just down the road."
"Home?"
The boy looked away.
"Something like that."
The president studied him.
"You got somewhere safe to sleep?"
"Yeah."
"Where?"
The teenager adjusted his backpack.
"Why?"
It was a reasonable question. The older man had grabbed him, shouted at him, and then offered him food, all within the same afternoon. There was no reason for the boy to trust him.
The president nodded.
"Fair enough."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded business card.
"This is the garage number. If you want to come back tomorrow, ask for me."
The teenager stared at the card.
"To work?"
"Not on the motorcycles. Not yet."
The president paused.
"But we can find something appropriate for you to do if you're interested, and we can talk about what you need."
The boy accepted the card.
"Okay."
"And kid?"
The teenager looked up.
"Don't let what happened today make you think you're not welcome to ask a question."
The boy's expression changed slightly.
He looked almost surprised.
Then he nodded and walked away.
The president watched until he disappeared around the corner.
Behind him, the garage lights flickered on.
Inside, the lead mechanic was standing alone beside the Shovelhead.
He waited until he was certain nobody was looking, then removed a small metal bolt from his pocket and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. There was a fresh mark across its head, and a trace of dark grease had settled inside the threads.
He stared at it for several seconds.
Then he dropped it into a container of scrap fasteners and pushed the container beneath the workbench.
He didn't notice the small security camera mounted above the office doorway.
And he didn't notice that the third mechanic had returned to retrieve his forgotten jacket.
The third mechanic stopped in the shadows.
He had seen enough to know that something was wrong.
He just didn't know how much danger that knowledge would bring.