That was why the motorcycle mattered.
In twelve days, the club would hold its annual memorial ride and fundraising event. The money raised would support a small community workshop where teenagers could learn basic mechanical skills without paying tuition. For years, the program had given struggling families access to tools, transportation repairs, and practical training. It wasn't glamorous work, and it rarely attracted attention, but the club president believed it was the most important thing the organization had ever done.
The Shovelhead was supposed to lead the ride.
Now the motorcycle wouldn't start, the repair bills were growing, and the club's financial reserves were dangerously low. Several sponsors had already expressed concern about whether the memorial event would happen. The club treasurer had quietly warned that another expensive repair might force them to postpone the workshop's fall program. Every failed attempt to start the engine made the president feel as though he were breaking his promise all over again.
That afternoon, he had reached the end of his patience.
Then a homeless teenager had wandered into the garage and pointed out something three experienced mechanics apparently hadn't seen.
The president released the boy's jacket completely.
"Back up," he ordered, though the anger in his voice had changed into something closer to confusion.
The boy stepped away from him and straightened his collar. His breathing was faster than before, but he kept his eyes on the motorcycle. He could feel everyone watching him now, and he disliked the attention almost as much as he disliked the way the old biker had grabbed him.
The lead mechanic pushed forward.
"That's not the problem," he announced.
The president turned.
"How do you know?"
"Because we checked the grounding system yesterday."
"Then why is that cable hanging loose?"
The mechanic hesitated.
"It's probably been disconnected during testing."
The president stared at him.
"You've been telling me for three weeks that this bike has a serious electrical problem, and you're standing there saying a disconnected cable is nothing?"
The mechanic's expression hardened. He was a man in his early forties, with dark hair beginning to thin above his forehead and the permanently irritated expression of someone who believed the world owed him patience. He had worked at the garage for nearly fourteen years. The president trusted him enough to leave the workshop keys in his possession and had never questioned his invoices before.
"Don't let some kid tell you how to run your shop," the mechanic said. "He probably doesn't even know what he's looking at."
The boy looked at the mechanic for the first time.
"I know what a ground strap is."
The mechanic laughed.
"Congratulations."
The president raised his hand, silencing him.
"What happens if it's disconnected?" he asked the boy.