The older technicians recognized the name.
A legend.
One of the last living mechanics who had worked directly with Enzo Ferrari.
Giuseppe walked to the center of the bay.
Each step deliberate.
Each breath earned.
He stopped beside Raymond and placed one weathered hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“This young man has been my student for five years,” Giuseppe said.
His voice was soft but carried to every corner of the room.
“I have trained over a hundred technicians in my career. Factory mechanics, racing engineers, men with university degrees and decades of experience.”
He looked directly at Preston Whitmore.
“Raymond Nelson is the most gifted diagnostician I have ever taught. If he says he knows what’s wrong with this car, then he knows.”
He squeezed Raymond’s shoulder gently.
“I am here to witness.”
Preston sputtered.
“This is highly irregular. This was supposed to be an independent evaluation. Outside interference could compromise the entire process.”
Theodore Harrington stood.
“Preston, if one of the most respected Ferrari mechanics in history wants to observe, we can accommodate him.”
His tone left no room for argument.
Giuseppe walked to the back row, settled into the chair beside Beatrice Nelson, and gave her a small nod.
“Your son is ready,” he whispered. “Trust what I have taught him.”
The clock showed 86 minutes remaining.
Raymond approached the Ferrari.
But he didn’t grab tools.
Didn’t open diagnostic equipment.
Didn’t rush.
He walked around the car slowly.
Looking.
Listening.
Feeling.
He placed his palm flat against the fender.
Crouched to examine the undercarriage.
Closed his eyes and breathed.
Derek Sullivan laughed out loud.
“What’s he doing? Trying to communicate telepathically? Maybe someone should get him a crystal ball.”
Several technicians chuckled.
Raymond opened his eyes and looked directly at Derek.
“I’m listening,” he said quietly. “Something you forgot how to do a long time ago.”
The laughter died instantly.
Raymond turned back to the car.
“Please start the engine.”
A technician turned the key.
The Ferrari’s V12 roared to life, 12 cylinders singing in harmony.
To most ears in the room, it sounded perfect.
Raymond closed his eyes again, head tilted slightly, completely still.
Ten seconds passed.
Twenty.
Thirty.
Then his eyes snapped open.
“There. Did anyone else hear that?”
Everyone looked confused.
They had heard nothing unusual.
“Hear what?” Derek challenged. “It sounds perfect.”
Raymond shook his head slowly.
“No. It sounds almost perfect. There’s a difference.”
He turned to face the clock.
83 minutes remaining.
“I’m going to need an analog fuel pressure gauge. The old kind, with a needle. Not a digital display.”
The real test had begun.
The request confused everyone.
An analog fuel pressure gauge.
A needle instead of a digital readout.