After the interview, he walked to his truck and called the collector.
No answer.
He tried again.
Still nothing.
A message arrived several minutes later.
Do not contact me again until this is resolved.
The mechanic stared at the screen.
For the first time, he began to understand that the collector had never considered him a partner.
He had been useful.
And now he was becoming a liability.
The following afternoon, the president received a call from the family services coordinator.
She had located the boy's mother.
The transfer had been part of a change in her rehabilitation plan, and communication between the facilities had been complicated by outdated contact details. She was alive, receiving care, and desperate to know whether her son was safe.
The president sat down when he heard the news.
"She knows where he is?"
"She knows he's safe and receiving support. We arranged a call."
"How did it go?"
There was a pause.
"They both cried."
The president closed his eyes.
For several seconds, he couldn't speak.
The coordinator continued.
"His mother has been frightened and frustrated by the confusion. She was told he was staying with family, but those arrangements fell apart. We're working with the relevant agencies to understand what happened and make a safe reunification plan."
The president nodded.
"Can I help?"
"Possibly. But let the professionals coordinate the care and housing arrangements."
"I understand."
"There's something else."
"What?"
"The boy asked whether he could come back to the workshop."
The president looked through the office window.
The Shovelhead sat on its lift, surrounded by tools and inspection sheets. It had once seemed like the most important thing in his life. Now it looked like an old motorcycle waiting to be repaired.
He smiled.
"Tell him the door's open."
The coordinator laughed softly.
"I thought you'd say that."
The president looked toward the garage.
"And tell him we've got some real work to do."
When the teenager returned two days later, the garage felt different.
The lead mechanic's workstation had been cleared, and his name had been removed from the repair schedule pending the investigation. The workbench had been reorganized, the service records were being reviewed, and the club president had instructed everyone to document repairs more carefully. There was no celebration, no triumphant announcement that the problem had been solved, and no attempt to pretend the previous week had been ordinary.
The teenager noticed all of it.
He entered beside the family services coordinator, carrying his familiar backpack and a small notebook filled with sketches of electrical circuits. He had spent part of the previous evening speaking with his mother over the telephone. Hearing her voice had made him feel safer than he had in weeks, but it had also opened a flood of emotions he didn't know how to manage.