"Good for him."
The president stepped closer.
"Let me ask you something."
"Go ahead."
"Why are you so interested in a motorcycle you think is broken?"
The collector shrugged.
"I like old iron."
"Lots of old iron for sale."
"Not like this one."
The president waited.
The collector looked toward the Shovelhead again.
"Original frame. Original engine cases. Club history. A motorcycle like that has character."
"Then you know it's worth more than eight thousand."
"Only if it runs."
The president studied him.
"And if it does?"
The collector's smile thinned.
"Then I suppose you'll have a nice motorcycle."
He climbed back into his truck.
Before closing the door, he looked toward the garage.
"Just remember, the longer you wait, the more expensive a problem can become."
The president remained standing until the truck disappeared.
Then he went inside.
The lead mechanic was watching from the office doorway.
Their eyes met.
Neither man said anything.
Later that afternoon, the boy asked whether there was a place nearby where he could charge a phone.
The president was wiping down a workbench.
"Sure. Office has outlets."
The teenager hesitated.
"I don't have one right now."
The president looked up.
"Lost it?"
"Sort of."
He didn't explain that his phone had stopped working several weeks earlier or that he had been unable to replace it. Without a working number, contacting his mother had become difficult. Public phones were scarce, and borrowing one meant explaining why a fifteen-year-old needed to make repeated calls to a rehabilitation facility.
The president set down his rag.
"You need to call somebody?"
The boy nodded.
"Maybe."
"Who?"
"My mom."
The older man leaned against the bench.
"Where is she?"
The boy stared at the floor.
"Recovering from an accident."
The president waited.
"She's in a rehabilitation place. Not here."
"Does she know where you are?"
The teenager's jaw tightened.
"Not exactly."
The president understood that he had reached the edge of something serious.
"How long since you've talked to her?"
The boy didn't answer.
"Kid?"
"Almost two weeks."
The president felt a slow knot forming in his stomach.
"Does she know you're safe?"
The boy looked up sharply.
"I am safe."
The president glanced at the teenager's worn shoes, the torn backpack, and the exhaustion beneath his eyes.
"I hope so."
The boy stepped backward.
"I should go."
"Wait."
The teenager froze.
The president raised his hands.
"I'm not stopping you."
"Then what?"
"I can let you use the office phone."
The boy looked uncertain.
"You don't have to tell me anything else. You can call her privately, and if you need help figuring out what to do next, I know people who handle that better than I do."
The teenager considered the offer.