Behind them, the lead mechanic's right hand disappeared toward the pocket of his greasy work trousers. The movement was small, but one of the other mechanics noticed a metallic object between his fingers before it vanished. The lead mechanic caught him looking and immediately turned away.
The old biker loosened his grip.
The boy lowered his hand.
And just like that, the entire atmosphere inside the garage changed.
The Shovelhead had been sitting on the hydraulic lift for nearly three weeks. Three professional mechanics had worked on it, sometimes for twelve hours at a time. They had examined the ignition system, tested the battery, replaced several aging electrical components, and spent hundreds of dollars on parts that hadn't solved the problem. Each attempt ended the same way: a brief mechanical sound, a fading headlight, and an engine that refused to come alive.
The club had already spent more than four thousand dollars trying to repair it. That money was painful, but what the motorcycle represented mattered far more. It had belonged to the man who started the club nearly forty years earlier, back when its members were young mechanics, construction workers, factory employees, and veterans looking for somewhere to belong. The machine wasn't particularly beautiful by modern standards, but every scratch and dent carried a memory.
Its black paint had been repaired so many times that sunlight revealed several different shades beneath the polish. The original leather seat had been patched by hand, the chrome exhaust bore faint discoloration from decades of heat, and the fuel tank still carried the club's old insignia. The founder had ridden that motorcycle across the country, through snowstorms and summer heat, long before any of the younger members had been born. When he died, he left the machine to the club with one request: keep it running, and never forget what brought them together.
The silver-haired biker had made that promise personally.
He was fifty-eight years old, broad across the shoulders, with thick forearms covered in faded tattoos. His beard had gone almost completely gray, but his posture retained the confidence of a man who had spent much of his life working with heavy equipment. His sleeveless leather vest was polished from years of wear, and a metal chain hung from his jeans. Around the garage, he was known simply as the club president.
He had been the founder's closest friend for more than three decades. They had worked together, ridden together, fought over meaningless things, and helped each other survive losses that neither man discussed openly. Eight years earlier, the president had stood beside the founder's hospital bed and promised that the club would continue looking after people who had nowhere else to go. It had been a simple promise made between two aging men, but he had never stopped thinking about it.