"You've had three of the best specialists in the country in this garage. All three of them walked away with nothing. Maybe it's time to accept that this might not be fixable. Maybe some things don't. Marcus' voice cracked just slightly, just enough for Dutch to hear it.
Don't say it, Dutch. I built this with my own hands. I know every bolt, every wire, every piece of it. I refuse to believe there's nothing left to try.
Dutch didn't push it further. He just sat there in the quiet with his oldest friend. The two of them staring at a silent machine like it might if they waited long enough decide to explain itself.
It was Reaper who saw the boy first. The morning of the fourth day had turned into a strange kind of theater. Reporters camped near the gate, hopeful strangers lined up with toolboxes and business cards. A small crowd of curious onlookers who'd heard about the reward and wanted to witness whatever happened next. Somewhere in the middle of all that noise, a beat up pickup truck who pulled off the road and parked at the very edge of the property and outstepped a teenager in a faded gray shirt with a small town repair shop's logo stitched over the pocket.
He didn't push through the crowd. He didn't announce himself. He just stood at the edge of the fence, hands in his pockets, looking at the garage like he was waiting for permission that nobody had offered him yet. Who's the kid? Reaper asked, nodding toward him.
Dutch squinted. No idea. doesn't look like the others. They never do, right up until they open their mouths and start talking about NASA. But the boy didn't approach anyone. He just stood there, quiet, patient, watching the garage doors like he was studying something the rest of the crowd couldn't see.
It was almost an hour before he finally walked up to the gate. And when the guard, a heavy set prospect named Cutter, stepped in front of him, the boy simply said four words. I'd like to help. Cutter looked him up and down, taking in the faded shirt, the worn boots, the kind of quiet stillness that didn't match the desperate energy of everyone else who'd shown up that week. You and every other person in the state, kid.
"Who are you?" "Ethan Carter." "You an engineer, Ethan?" No, sir. You work for one of those big shops, racing team dealerships, something like that.
No, sir. I work at my dad's garage outside Flagstaff. Cutter almost laughed. You're telling me you drove 2 hours from a small town repair shop to fix a $5 million motorcycle that beat three of the best specialists in the country? 5.9, Ethan said quietly correcting him.