At the end of his shift he changed into his cleaner shirt, discovered that its collar was stained anyway, and slung his backpack over his shoulder. He could have taken a bus for part of the journey home, but he was saving the fare for Ruth's next appointment. So he walked. He took the longer industrial route near the Iron Rail because the sidewalks were wider and traffic moved more slowly after dark.
He heard Black Fury before he saw it. Somebody was trying to turn the engine over while several others shouted directions from the parking lot. The starter labored through a dry series of mechanical pulses, and beneath them was a sharp, irregular metallic whisper. Then the attempt stopped. For a moment Owen heard only the cooling engine and the distant noise of passing vehicles.
The sound pulled him back into a memory of Thomas leaning beside an old engine, listening without touching it. He knew the particular quality of a timing component losing its correct relationship with something else. Yet the note alone was not proof; it only told him where to begin. He stopped near the gate and looked at the black motorcycle set beneath the garage awning.
He was about to keep walking when he noticed the configuration of the carburetor and the old ground strap visible beneath the frame. They were details he had studied in photographs and on discarded machines, details that belonged to different generations of Harley design. Somebody had built this engine by bringing incompatible eras into careful conversation. It was precisely the kind of work Thomas admired, the kind that rewarded listening more than assuming.
"That's a nice build," Owen said, mostly to himself.
Garrett heard him. He turned from the folding table where the money sat under a beer bottle and examined the boy from head to foot. His gaze took in Owen's splitting shoes, stained shirt, and cheap backpack. It made no difference to him that the boy had stopped because he recognized a mechanical problem; he saw a stranger whose appearance offended the image of the club he wanted to project.
"What are you looking at?" he called.
"Your motorcycle, sir. I think I heard something in the timing."
Garrett laughed and repeated the answer to the men beside him in a voice large enough to turn it into a performance. "Listen to this. Kid walks by with grease on his face and thinks he's a mechanic." He gestured toward the money. "Fifteen people couldn't bring her back. You planning to do it with magic?"
Owen glanced at the three specialists standing beyond the table. He recognized Nolan Briggs from a vintage-bike magazine photograph, and Curtis Wade from a talk the public library had once streamed about mechanical engineering. For a second he felt embarrassed by his own confidence. These were men with experience he respected, whatever mistakes they might have made on this particular machine.