At ten thirty, a young woman entered carrying a canvas bag and a stack of folders against her hip. She had dark hair tied back, wore plain sneakers beneath a neat jacket, and looked as though she had already attended three meetings she would rather forget. Butcher glanced up and said, "Morning, Millie. Your father send you to collect what I owe him?"
"If he did, I'd need a bigger bag," she answered. She looked toward Brian. "You must be the mechanic everybody's talking about."
"I'm Brian."
"Millie Restrepo." She set down the folders. "I work with my father at his law office. He's the attorney who sometimes has the unfortunate job of helping this group remember the rules."
Brian looked from her to Butcher. "Are you here because I'm in trouble?"
"I'm here because a lot of adults have questions to answer, and you're the one who has been trying to answer them alone." Millie crouched so she could speak to him without looming. "Your caseworker knows we're coming to discuss possibilities. Your grandfather's illness changes who can legally look after you, and getting that right matters. Nothing about a running motorcycle can replace it."
He looked away, suddenly embarrassed. "Rex said something like that."
"Rex has good instincts when he remembers to use them." Millie pulled out a small notebook.
"Will you tell me about your grandfather's house? Who helps you now? What school you attend? Any family besides him? We can do this in the office, and you can stop if you need a break."
Brian hesitated. He did not like strangers asking questions about his life, because questions usually turned into forms and forms turned into decisions he could not control. But the woman was waiting patiently, not holding a pen poised to trap him in the wrong answer. He followed her into the small office overlooking the shop floor and sat in a chair with a split vinyl cushion.
There were photographs along the office wall. Some showed club charity rides, others old garage openings and motorcycles parked outside buildings that no longer existed. One showed Rex with a boy of perhaps eight beside a bicycle, both grinning at the camera. Brian glanced at it until Millie noticed and explained that Rex had once been a foster parent to a child whose relatives later reunited with him.
"His certification isn't current," she said. "That doesn't automatically mean he can take you in tomorrow. But it means he has experience. More important, we have to find out whether you're safe, whether you can stay close to school, and whether the appropriate people will approve a temporary arrangement."
"Will they?"
"I don't know yet," Millie said. "I won't tell you yes when the answer isn't yes. But I will tell you what we find and what happens next."
The honesty unsettled Brian at first. Adults often said things would work out when they had no idea whether that was true, and he had begun to hear such reassurances as another way of being told to stop asking. Millie opened her notebook and waited without rushing him. Eventually he began at the beginning, because the beginning was the only part of his life that still made sense.