The teenager hesitated. He understood the question, but he also understood that the answer could get him thrown out again. He had spent enough time around angry adults to recognize when someone's pride mattered more than the truth. Still, the old motorcycle was sitting directly in front of him, and the loose connection was difficult to ignore.
"Depends on the bike," he said carefully. "But a bad ground can make electrical things act strange. Sometimes it looks like something bigger is broken."
One of the younger mechanics frowned.
"That's true."
The lead mechanic shot him a warning look.
The president noticed.
"Get the service notes," he ordered.
Nobody moved immediately.
"I said get them."
The younger mechanic hurried toward the office while the lead mechanic remained beside the workbench. His right hand was still buried in his pocket. The third mechanic, a quiet man with a trimmed beard and an oil-stained gray shirt, looked from the motorcycle to the lead mechanic with increasing unease.
The president turned back toward the boy.
"What's your name?"
The boy didn't answer.
"Can you hear me?"
"Yes."
"Then answer."
The teenager lowered his eyes.
"Does it matter?"
That question struck the president harder than he expected. He looked at the worn jacket, the boy's thin wrists, and the battered backpack sitting just outside the garage door. He had assumed the teenager was trying to steal something before the boy had spoken a single word.
"How old are you?" he asked instead.
"Fifteen."
The president looked toward the open doorway.
"Where are your parents?"
The boy's expression closed immediately.
"Can I go now?"
For several seconds, nobody said anything.
Then the lead mechanic stepped forward again.
"That's probably best. We have enough problems without a runaway wandering around the shop."
The teenager flinched almost imperceptibly at the word runaway. The president noticed that too, though he didn't understand why. He looked toward the dangling strap, then toward the mechanic whose hand remained hidden inside his pocket.
"Not yet," he said.
The mechanic's face tightened.
"Seriously?"
The president pointed toward the motorcycle.
"Bring me a flashlight."
The younger mechanic returned with the service notes. The third mechanic fetched a light from the workbench. As they leaned toward the lower engine area, the teenager stayed where he was, careful not to move closer without permission.
The flashlight revealed the disconnected strap clearly.
More importantly, it revealed a clean circular patch on the frame surrounded by older dust. Whatever had held the cable in place had been removed recently. There were fresh metallic marks near the mounting point, and the end of the strap showed no signs of the severe corrosion the lead mechanic had repeatedly described in his reports.
The president looked up slowly.