At last the men rolled the motorcycle into a properly ventilated testing area and positioned it securely. Rex joined them, along with Diesel, Crow, and Millie, and everyone remained clear of the machine while Butcher completed his checks. Brian stood beside the workbench with his grandfather's notebook open, feeling his pulse rise with the sound of the fuel system and the small mechanical noises of a motorcycle waking after years of silence.
"Ready?" Butcher asked.
Brian nodded. "Ready."
The starter engaged. The engine turned slowly, resisted, then turned again before catching in a rough burst of sound that made the entire room seem to move. For three seconds the old Harley shook and rumbled, its exhaust filling the bay with the unmistakable voice of an engine that had spent years forgotten. Brian's face opened into astonished joy, so completely unguarded that Rex felt an ache in his chest.
Then the engine coughed and died.
Butcher tried one controlled restart after checking the immediate signs. The starter turned the motor, but it did not catch again. He shut everything down instead of continuing to drain the battery, and the silence afterward was more devastating than if the engine had never started at all. Brian stared at the machine as though it had spoken to him in a language he almost understood and then refused to finish the sentence.
"Maybe it's fuel," Brian said. "Or maybe the ignition. We can check. We still have—"
"We stop and diagnose," Butcher said. "We don't guess."
Brian started reading the checklist too quickly, losing his place, and the more he tried to gather his thoughts the farther they slipped away. His eyes burned with fatigue. The deadline Rex had mentioned on Tuesday seemed to be closing around him, though Rex had already explained that it would not determine his future. To Brian, promises made by adults still felt temporary, and the motorcycle was the one proof he believed he could supply.
Butcher noticed the way the boy's hands had begun to shake. He took the notebook gently and set it on the bench. "You've done enough for tonight. We're going to find the fault, but you're not doing it like this."
"I can keep going," Brian insisted.
"I know you can." Butcher lowered his voice. "The question is whether you should."
Brian stared at him, then at the dead motorcycle. The photographs of James and Sarah lay safely in his bag, and he could almost hear the old man's patient voice correcting him for trying to force an answer. He hated that his own body had become another thing he couldn't fix by wanting harder. Tears rose suddenly, and he turned away so nobody would see them.
"I promised him," he whispered.
Butcher crouched beside him, his large hands resting on his own knees. "Then we'll keep working. But a promise isn't worth much if you destroy yourself trying to fulfill it."
Rex walked over and listened as Butcher explained that the engine had started briefly but the remaining problem required another careful review. He did not shout, accuse anyone, or tell Brian that the chance was gone. Instead, he asked the mechanics what they needed and told them to make a sensible plan. The question was so practical that Brian began crying before he could stop himself.
"I'm sorry," he said, staring at the floor. "I'm sorry. I thought I could do it."
Rex knelt so the boy would not have to look up. "You came here and asked us to help. We said we would. Nothing about that has changed."