The garage address was printed beneath the club's insignia. On the back, someone had written a phone number in blue ink and added two words: Ask first.
He looked at those words for a long time.
Then he put the card away.
Before heading toward the garage, he stopped outside a public library. It hadn't opened yet, but there was a drinking fountain near the entrance and a restroom in the adjacent transit building. He washed his face, straightened his jacket, and examined himself in the mirror.
He looked younger than fifteen when he was tired.
He hated that.
His mother used to tell him that being young wasn't something to be ashamed of, but the world had a way of turning youth into proof that his opinions didn't matter. Whenever he asked questions, adults told him to wait until he was older. Whenever he made mistakes, they reminded him that he should have known better.
He pulled the zipper wire into place.
Then he started walking.
The garage was already busy when he arrived.
Several motorcycles stood outside beneath the awning, and the smell of coffee drifted through the open doorway. The club president was sitting at a folding table with the treasurer, studying an assortment of documents. Two mechanics were working on an older touring motorcycle, while the Shovelhead remained on its lift near the center of the shop.
The boy stopped at the entrance.
The president looked up.
"You came back."
The teenager nodded.
"You said I could."
"I did."
A brief silence followed.
The president gestured toward an empty chair.
"Want some breakfast?"
The boy glanced at the table.
There were eggs, toast, potatoes, and a large metal coffee pot. The meal looked better than anything he had eaten in days, but he didn't move.
"I can sweep first."
The president studied him.
"Breakfast isn't payment."
"I know."
"Then sit."
The boy hesitated.
The president corrected himself.
"Please."
That small word made the teenager look up.
He pulled out the chair.
The president placed a paper plate in front of him and pushed the food within reach. He didn't ask the boy where he had slept or why his clothes looked the same as yesterday. Instead, he began talking about the motorcycle as though the teenager were simply another person interested in machines.
"We had the battery checked this morning."
The boy swallowed a bite of toast.
"Was it bad?"
"Low from all the starting attempts. We're charging it and checking the rest."
The boy nodded.
"That makes sense."
The president watched him for a moment.
"You really know something about electrical systems?"
"A little."
"Who taught you?"
The teenager hesitated.
"My mom."
"She a mechanic?"
"Transit maintenance."
The president raised his eyebrows.
"That's serious work."
The boy's face changed.