"And before you tell me we did that last week, I know. Check it now." For a moment Greg did not move. The instruction exposed an uncomfortable choice: refuse, and appear afraid of a nine-year-old's theory; comply, and risk discovering that his own work had been wrong.
He set down the cloth, called for a dial indicator and the timing reference sheets, and instructed the team to clear enough space around the engine for an inspection. The mechanic from Chicago, a narrow-faced man named Daniel Mercer, moved without comment. Daniel had spent much of the morning disagreeing with Greg about whether the issue was mechanical or fuel-related, and he was interested in any test that might end the argument.
Victor stepped back to give them room. Noah remained behind a yellow line marked on the concrete, which Angela was relieved to see someone enforce. Greg took the first readings, checked the reference, and frowned. He reset his instrument, checked again, then asked Daniel to confirm it independently. The answer did not improve. The timing was off by four degrees, a small measurement in ordinary conversation and a potentially serious error in a precisely arranged engine.
"Four degrees," Daniel said quietly. Greg stared at the dial. "We set it correctly," he answered, almost speaking to himself. "I signed off on it six days ago."
Victor's face darkened. "Then either you were wrong six days ago or something changed between then and now." He looked toward Noah, who was watching the instrument rather than the men. "Is that what you heard?"
"Maybe," Noah said. "I heard the engine stop the same way each time. If the timing stayed exactly where it's supposed to be, it shouldn't keep doing that after all the work you've done." Greg turned toward him. "There are a dozen reasons an engine can stall."
Noah agreed immediately. "Yes, sir. My dad said to check the reasons you can prove, not the reasons you can only say." Daniel bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. The remark was not disrespectful, but it reached the heart of the problem.
Angela watched her son with a confusion that made her throat ache. She knew he was clever. She had seen him repair the latch on a borrowed bicycle and explain why a secondhand fan rattled until its base was tightened. But those were household problems, small inconveniences solved at their kitchen table. This was Victor Langston's private garage, where a single tool cabinet cost more than Angela's car, and her little boy was speaking as though the people inside it might benefit from his opinion. She wanted to protect him from the moment when grown men decided he had spoken too confidently.