"What kind of people?"
"People who work with families and young people. People who know the rules."
The boy's expression tightened.
"Social workers?"
"Sometimes."
The teenager shook his head.
"I don't want to get sent away."
The president's face softened.
"Who said you were getting sent away?"
"They said I might."
"Who?"
The boy looked toward the garage door.
"Before."
The president didn't push further.
Instead, he reached into his pocket, took out his keys, and opened the office.
"You can make the call. Nobody's going to stand over your shoulder."
The teenager followed him inside.
The president placed the telephone on the desk and stepped out, leaving the door partly open. He didn't want the boy to feel trapped, but he also wanted to remain close enough to help if necessary.
Several minutes passed.
Then ten.
When the president finally looked through the window, the teenager was still holding the phone.
He wasn't speaking.
His face had gone pale.
The president knocked gently.
"You okay?"
The boy turned.
His eyes were wet.
"She isn't there."
The president entered slowly.
"Who isn't?"
"My mom."
"What did they say?"
The teenager swallowed.
"They transferred her."
"Where?"
"They couldn't tell me."
"Did they explain why?"
The boy shook his head.
"They said I have to talk to someone from her care team."
The president pulled out the chair opposite him.
"Then we'll figure out how to reach the right person."
The teenager gripped the telephone.
"What if something happened?"
The president wanted to promise that everything was fine.
He couldn't.
So he told the truth.
"We don't know that anything happened. We just need more information."
The boy looked down at the phone.
For the first time since arriving at the garage, his composure broke completely. Tears ran down his cheeks, and he tried to wipe them away before the older man could see. He had spent days convincing himself that he was managing, that he had everything under control, that he only needed one more meal and one more safe place to sleep.
Now the uncertainty about his mother was too much.
The president moved a box of tissues across the desk.
He didn't touch the boy.
He didn't tell him to be strong.
He simply stayed.
After several minutes, the teenager whispered, "I don't know what I'm supposed to do."
The old biker looked toward the garage, where the black Shovelhead waited beneath the fluorescent lights.
He had spent the previous three weeks worrying about a motorcycle.
Now he was sitting across from a child who didn't know where his mother was.
And he finally understood which problem deserved his attention first.
The president made two more calls before the garage closed.