"I wish you were here," he said softly, to the photograph and perhaps to everyone he had lost.
At seven, his phone buzzed with a message from Butcher. COME WHEN YOU'RE READY. NO RUSH. Brian read it three times before replying that he was on his way. The simplicity of the message felt like a hand held out without conditions, and he took the sandwich Mrs. Alvarez had packed instead of leaving it behind.
The garage was awake when he arrived. Diesel was sweeping the service bay, Crow was checking the tire pressure on a customer's motorcycle, and Millie sat in the office with several folders spread across the desk. Rex stood beside the Harley, studying the clean parts and the list of completed checks. Butcher looked up as Brian entered and waved him over.
"We found the problem," he said.
Brian stopped moving. "You did?"
"We found a problem. We corrected it. And we checked the rest of our work. That's as far as I'll claim until the engine proves us right." Butcher showed him the relevant notes and pointed out where he had misread a reference during assembly.
"My mistake. Not yours. I signed it."
Brian stared at the page. He had spent the night accusing himself of carelessness, imagining his grandfather's disappointment and wondering whether Butcher would tell the others that the boy had ruined the repair. Discovering that a man he admired had made a mistake and simply admitted it left him uncertain what to say. He had grown up around adults who were capable of being wrong, but he had rarely seen one announce it so plainly.
"You don't have to put your name there," Brian said.
"Yes, I do. What good is a record if it only tells people what makes us look smart?"
Brian thought of his grandfather's notebooks, the crossed-out guesses, the dates when an idea had not worked. "He would have liked that," he said.
"Then he can complain to me himself when he gets the chance." Butcher tried to sound gruff, but his voice softened at the end. "You ready to hear this thing?"
Brian nodded. His pulse was hammering, but he did not ask to sit on the motorcycle or start it himself. Butcher had explained that the test would be carried out by a qualified adult while the boy watched from a safe position. For once, Brian was content to let another person's hands do the dangerous part of the job. His own hands felt exhausted from worrying, and he could not imagine needing them to prove anything more.
Rex stood beside him. Behind them, several members of Thunderfork had arrived after hearing that James's motorcycle might run for the first time in six years. Their presence was quieter than Brian expected. Some leaned against the far wall, others stood near the open door with coffee cups in hand, and nobody shouted encouragement because they understood the boy needed room to breathe.
Butcher checked the surrounding space one final time. Then he turned the key, waited, and engaged the starter. For a heartbeat there was only the familiar mechanical turning of an engine gathering itself. Brian held his breath until his chest hurt, afraid that even the smallest movement might break the moment.