Butcher was at the old Harley when Brian came in, examining the parts they had removed the previous evening. He had laid clean cloth across the nearest workbench and placed labeled containers in a straight line, leaving space for anything the diagnosis might reveal. "You're five minutes early," he said without looking up. "Either you can tell time or you're worried I'm going to steal all the fun."
"Both," Brian replied.
Butcher's mouth twitched. He pointed to a stool and told the boy to bring his notebook. Their first task was not exciting: identifying the parts they could inspect without tearing the engine apart and distinguishing what would have to be measured by a trained mechanic. Brian wanted to skip ahead to the cylinders, certain that he could find the engine's trouble if only he got inside it. Butcher refused, explaining that dismantling an entire motor before understanding the symptoms was a good way to turn one unknown problem into six new ones.
"You don't have to prove you know the answer before you've asked the right question," Butcher told him.
Brian made a face. "My grandfather used to say that."
"Your granddad had a lot of annoying sayings." Butcher tapped the notebook with one thick finger. "Most of them were right."
They worked side by side while the morning went on. Butcher checked the mechanical condition of the engine using proper equipment, and Brian compared the findings with measurements James had recorded years before. Several components were worn, one cylinder showed scoring, and old fuel had left heavy deposits in the carburetor. There was also evidence of a problem around the primary cover that could not be ignored, even if the engine itself could be coaxed into turning.
Brian wrote each finding in two columns, one labeled OBSERVED and the other POSSIBLE CAUSE. It was the way James had taught him to think, a little ritual that forced him to slow down when he wanted to rush. "If you mix what you saw with what you guessed," his grandfather had said, "you'll spend all day fixing your imagination." Brian read those words again and circled a problem he had been too eager to dismiss.
The scoring inside the cylinder was worse than he expected. He had pictured a quick repair with the right abrasive and an hour of careful work, but Butcher showed him how the damage extended below the surface. A professional machine shop might be able to salvage the components if they were within safe limits, but no responsible person would pretend that a few minutes of sanding could undo years of wear. Brian stared at the measurements, feeling the first sharp edge of disappointment.
"So it's finished," he said.
"I didn't say that." Butcher slid another drawing toward him. "I said we don't know if this particular part is usable. Those aren't the same thing. We've got options, but first we get actual measurements, then we decide."
Brian nodded. His shoulders had tightened without his noticing, and when he forced them down, he realized how badly he wanted the day to be simple. He wanted to solve the motorcycle the way he had solved countless smaller repairs at home, piece by piece until the world became predictable again. But the bike was not a school project, and his grandfather's future was not a broken starter motor he could rebuild.