"I didn't say I was better." Owen raised his eyes for the first time since the timer started. "I said I thought I could fix it. I'd like to finish."
The exchange would later be slowed, captioned, and distributed more widely than either man could have imagined. In the footage, Garrett seemed almost unable to tolerate a calm answer. Owen looked exhausted, visibly outmatched, and yet stubbornly focused on completing the agreed task. The moment was not inspiring to everyone watching in the lot. To some it was uncomfortable, because the man who claimed to stand for strength was beginning to look like somebody frightened of being wrong.
Vince kicked the toolbox again. This time it tipped rather than flew, but the latch popped and the sockets scattered. Owen's throat tightened as he saw his father's wrench slide across the pavement. He did not shout, though he wanted to. He gathered the tools, placed each in its compartment, and shut the case firmly before lifting out the emery cloth and the half-inch wrench once more.
A mechanic wearing a shop shirt from a garage across town muttered, "Leave the kid alone."
The words were quiet, but they were the first public objection anybody had made. The man beside him turned his head as though surprised to hear a different kind of conversation. Eleanor looked toward the voice and felt a brief, painful relief. It should not have taken two repairs and a countdown to make somebody remember the boy was human.
Garrett heard the objection too. He stared at the mechanic, and for a moment the lot seemed ready to become a different sort of spectacle. But the timer was running, and Garrett wanted the wager completed. He waved his crew back half a step and told Owen to get on with it. In his mind he was granting a privilege. Owen saw only that he had room to work.
He lay beside the frame and angled the flashlight beneath the engine. The asphalt was still warm from the sun, and grit pressed through his thin shirt as he slid an arm toward the ground connection. He could see the strap and the bolt clearly now. The bolt was secure, the wire unbroken, and any casual inspection would have marked the connection sound.
Owen did not trust appearances at electrical joints. The green discoloration he had glimpsed earlier was enough to suggest what happened when moisture and road salt found their way between dissimilar metals over several winters. A connection could carry a reading under light testing and still fail when the ignition required a strong, stable path. A meter attached to the wrong side of a bad joint would never explain the weakness, however expensive the meter was.