For the first time since entering the garage, he looked openly pleased.
"She's good at it."
"Sounds like it."
The boy lowered his eyes toward his plate.
"Yeah."
The president noticed the sadness that followed but didn't press.
Instead, he told the teenager about the workshop program and the memorial ride. He explained how the club had started teaching young people to use tools safely, how several former students now worked in local repair businesses, and how the founder had believed that practical skills could give someone a second chance.
The boy listened with increasing interest.
"Kids can actually come here to learn?"
"That's the idea."
"Without paying?"
"Without paying."
The teenager looked toward the Shovelhead.
"That bike's part of it?"
"More than you know."
The president leaned back.
"It belonged to the man who taught half of us how to work on motorcycles. He always said a shop isn't worth much unless somebody younger leaves knowing more than when they came in."
The boy considered that.
"My mom says something like that."
"What does she say?"
"She says knowing how to fix something doesn't make you better than someone else. It means you have a chance to help."
The president looked down at his coffee.
For reasons he couldn't immediately explain, the words made him uncomfortable.
He remembered grabbing the teenager's collar the previous afternoon. He remembered the way the boy had kept his hands visible and his voice quiet. He remembered how quickly he had assumed that a stranger wearing dirty clothes must have been doing something wrong.
He had spent years telling people the club existed to help those who were overlooked.
Then, when one of those people walked through the door, he had treated him like a criminal.
The realization didn't make him feel noble.
It made him ashamed.
Shortly after breakfast, the third mechanic arrived carrying a brown envelope.
He looked tired.
The president noticed immediately.
"You all right?"
The mechanic glanced toward the workshop.
"Can we talk privately?"
The president stood.
"Office."
The teenager remained at the table, finishing his potatoes while the two men disappeared behind the glass partition. He could see their silhouettes through the office window, but he couldn't hear their words. The third mechanic spoke quietly and repeatedly looked toward the garage floor.
Inside, he described what he had witnessed the previous evening.
The president listened without interrupting.
When the mechanic finished, he remained silent for nearly a minute.
"You're sure?"
"I saw him take something from his pocket and drop it into the scrap bin."
"Did you see exactly what it was?"
"Looked like a bolt."
"Could it have been something else?"
The third mechanic hesitated.
"Maybe. But he was acting like he didn't want anybody to see."