"How old is he, ma'am? "Nineteen, Mr. Hank. "How long has he been working this shop? "Since the day his daddy died.
Six years this June. Hank was quiet for a long time.
His hand was steadier now. "Where'd he learn that trick with the lathe?" "James, his father. The best mechanic this county ever knew."
Hank's eyes flickered. He set the cup down on the bench, reached into his vest, pulled out a small worn pocket notebook, wrote something down in slow careful letters, put it back. He didn't say a word. 11:18 p.m.
The head gasket. No replacement existed anywhere on this side of the country at that hour. So, Elijah cut one by hand from a sheet of copper he'd been saving for a sculpture project he was never going to finish anyway. He scored the shape with a scribe, cut it with tin snips, annealed the copper with a propane torch until it glowed cherry red, quenched it in a bucket of cold water, trimmed it with a file by feel, by touch, the way his father had taught him. Hank watched the whole time.
He hadn't moved from that stool in over an hour.
12:34 a.m. Reassembly. Elijah laid the new gasket in, torqued the head bolts down in the cross pattern, three passes, just like his daddy taught him. Hooked the rebuilt coil up, cleaned and reset the carburetor in a coffee can full of gasoline. His hands were black with grease.
His back ached. The lantern flickered dangerously low.
1:47 a.m. Final touches. He bled the lines, checked the timing, set the gap on the points. Then he stood up. His shirt was soaked through with sweat.
His arms were trembling.
"You want to do the honors, sir?" Hank stood up slow, limped over, sat down on the saddle, took a deep breath, closed his eyes for one long second. Then he hit the starter. Click.
Nothing. Hank's jaw clenched hard. His shoulders dropped half an inch. Elijah leaned over, checked the spark. "Try it again."
Click. Cough, sputter, then silence. The rain on the roof felt suddenly louder than it had all night. Loretta appeared in the doorway holding the coffee pot, her lips moving in silent prayer.
Elijah's hands were shaking now, not from cold, from hope. He reached down, adjusted the carb screw by exactly 1/4 turn. "One more time, sir." Hank hit the starter one last time. The Panhead roared to life, not coughing, not sputtering, roaring like it was 1965 again.
The whole shop bay shook with it. Hank's face cracked open in a way Elijah would never forget for the rest of his life. The old biker bowed his head over the handlebars. His shoulders shook hard. He didn't make a sound.
But the tears came down in streams onto the polished gas tank. 2:14 a.m.