"He didn't just tell me stories," Brian said. "He made me explain how things worked. If I couldn't explain, he said I didn't understand enough to touch them."
Rex looked at the notebook for a long time. He could not make a promise about housing on the strength of mechanical knowledge, and he was not going to put a child in front of heavy equipment merely to satisfy a challenge. But he could recognize the difference between a boy boasting and a boy showing the evidence of years spent learning beside somebody patient. He also recognized the urgency in the way Brian kept glancing toward the clock.
"You can't buy a place to live with a motorcycle repair," Rex said. "That's not how this works. If you need help, we'll find out what help is possible. And you will not be here all night, taking engines apart without adult supervision."
Brian's face fell. "I thought if I showed you—"
"I haven't finished." Rex pointed at the bike. "I'll give you forty-eight hours to show me what you understand about Jaime's project, with a mechanic beside you and no dangerous work that isn't handled by an adult. We'll look at the machine together. Whether it runs or not, we speak to the people responsible for keeping you safe. I won't make a promise I can't legally keep."
"So there's a chance?" Brian asked.
Rex looked past him toward the ancient photograph pinned above the office door, showing seven younger men with their motorcycles lined up outside a diner. James stood in the middle, laughing. It was the sort of photograph Rex had stopped noticing after years of seeing it, and now it seemed to look directly at him.
"There's a chance we'll figure out what comes next," Rex said. "That's the only honest answer I have."
Brian nodded so fiercely that Rex feared he might hurt his neck. Butcher picked up a portable work lamp, dragged a stool beside the Harley, and placed a clean parts tray within reach. As he passed the boy, he gave him a look that was part warning and part invitation. "If you're using your granddad's tools," he said, "you'd better take care of them."
"I always do," Brian replied.
They began with the simple things. Butcher inspected the bike for obvious hazards while Brian read through his grandfather's notes, naming what each entry meant and distinguishing what he knew from what he merely suspected. When Brian started to reach for a corroded electrical connection, Butcher stopped him and disconnected the battery himself. The lesson was plain, though neither man made a speech about it: knowledge did not mean rushing ahead, and being trusted did not mean being left alone.
By half past six, the men had established that the fuel had deteriorated and several connections were badly corroded. The engine would not turn freely, though the cause remained uncertain. The old motorcycle had accumulated too many years of problems for any quick miracle, and the list on the whiteboard grew until Brian's confident expression began to thin. But when Butcher asked him which fault should be investigated first, he opened the notebook and explained his reasoning carefully enough that the mechanic nodded.
At seven, Rex announced that the garage was closing for the night. Brian looked up so sharply that Butcher raised both hands before he could protest. "Your brain isn't getting better while your body gets worse," the big man said. "You can come back in the morning. I'll be here."