Brian blinked. "What?"
"You can't spend your whole life fixing things. There ought to be something you do because it makes you happy."
He thought for a long time. "Drawing," he said finally.
"Not pictures of people. Diagrams. Sometimes buildings. And I like astronomy when I can see the sky from our back steps. Grandpa and I have an old star chart."
Millie added a note. "Good. You'll need room for that wherever you go."
When they returned to the garage, Butcher was demonstrating something to Diesel beside the open engine, and a new visitor was waiting on an upturned bucket with a sandwich bag in her lap. Mrs. Alvarez had sent extra food, which Butcher claimed was unnecessary while reaching for it before anyone else. Brian accepted a sandwich, but his thoughts were still tangled in the possibility of a safe place that did not depend on a machine running.
"How'd the interview go?" Butcher asked.
"She asked about stars."
Butcher looked offended. "Nobody asked me about stars."
"They probably knew you'd get the answers wrong," Millie said.
The mechanics laughed, and Brian found himself laughing with them. It lasted only a moment, but it loosened something in his chest. For months the adults around him had spoken in tired voices about bills and appointments and what might happen next. Here, even with everything unresolved, people still had the energy to tease one another.
The afternoon moved more slowly. A specialist at a machine shop confirmed that the damaged cylinder components required work the garage could not safely improvise. Rex authorized the expense after checking its cost, not because he expected payment from Brian but because the motorcycle belonged to James and was worth giving an honest assessment. Brian protested once, saying he had offered to earn his place. Rex replied that no child owed him the price of a machine-shop invoice.
"But you said forty-eight hours," Brian reminded him.
"I said we'd see what you know in forty-eight hours. I didn't say I would hold your entire future hostage to a deadline." Rex looked toward the motorcycle. "And when your grandfather made a promise, he usually meant it. I ought to try doing the same."
They spent another hour cleaning and examining the reachable parts. Brian moved around the motorcycle with increasing confidence, checking the notes against what lay in front of him. Near the left side of the frame, he noticed an old line of adhesive beside a panel that did not quite match the surrounding paint. At first he assumed somebody had repaired a crack. Then he remembered a drawing in the notebook showing a narrow rectangle with no mechanical label.
He pointed it out to Butcher, who studied the area with a light. "That panel wasn't installed by the factory," the mechanic said. "Looks like Jaime's work. But we don't start prying things open because curiosity gets loud."
"Can we look at it when you're ready?" Brian asked.
"When I'm ready," Butcher agreed.
By four, with the component inspection nearly finished, Butcher removed the panel carefully. Behind it sat a small waterproof pouch wrapped in waxed fabric, its edge caught beneath a metal retaining clip. The pouch had been hidden deliberately, not forgotten in the way tools sometimes disappeared beneath seats. Brian knew it was his grandfather's before the mechanic even handed it over.