She was in her late forties, wearing a practical jacket and carrying a canvas bag filled with folders. Her expression was calm rather than sympathetic, and she didn't begin by asking the teenager why he had run away. Instead, she asked whether he was hungry, whether he needed medical care, and whether he felt safe speaking in the office.
The boy answered cautiously.
She listened.
Then she explained what would happen if they tried to locate his mother and arrange suitable temporary housing. There would be paperwork, verification, and conversations with responsible adults. Some decisions would require formal involvement from child welfare services because of his age, but she emphasized that the purpose was to make sure he was safe and connected to his family.
The boy asked whether he could remain near the rehabilitation facility.
She said they would try to understand what arrangements were possible.
He asked whether his mother would be angry.
The woman paused.
"She may be frightened about what you've been through. But contacting her is an important first step."
The boy looked down.
"I didn't mean to scare her."
The president watched him carefully.
The teenager had been carrying guilt as though it were another object inside his backpack. He believed that leaving had created a problem so large it might never be forgiven. Yet nobody in the room was treating him as though he had committed a terrible offense.
After a long conversation, he agreed to let the woman help contact his mother's care team and arrange a safe place for the night.
The president offered to pay for a hotel room.
The woman shook her head.
"He needs an appropriate supervised arrangement, not just a room key. We'll work through the available options."
The president accepted the correction.
He was slowly learning that wanting to help and knowing how to help were not the same thing.
Before leaving, the boy walked toward the Shovelhead.
The garage was almost empty now. A few overhead lights remained on, illuminating the curved fuel tank and the engine's polished covers. He stopped just behind the yellow line and stared at the machine.
The president joined him.
"Something bothering you?"
The teenager nodded toward the motorcycle.
"You think it'll run?"
"I hope so."
"Can I ask you something?"
"Go ahead."
"Why don't you just sell it?"
The president looked surprised.
"You heard about that?"
"A little."
The old biker studied the machine.
"Because sometimes something is worth more than what someone offers you for it."
The boy nodded slowly.
"My mom says that about old cars."
The president smiled.
"Smart woman."
"She says people throw things away because they don't want to understand what's wrong."
The president looked toward the engine.
"Maybe she's right."
The teenager turned to leave.