Some things could be useful again.
Leo needed to believe that.
It was July when Frank assigned him Section G.
“Clear what you can.”
Leo stared toward the far corner.
Section G was barely visible behind stacks of damaged vehicles and shoulder-high weeds.
“You trying to kill me?”
“Only if you bill me overtime.”
“There are snakes back there.”
“Snakes got rights too.”
Leo rolled his eyes.
Frank tossed him a long metal hook.
“Move slow. Make noise. Don’t put your hands where you can’t see.”
The section had not been properly cleared in years.
Leo spent the morning dragging out lengths of rusted pipe, half a washing machine, aluminum siding, and the frame of what might once have been a camping trailer.
Around noon, while pulling a heavy chain from beneath a crushed Ford Bronco, he felt something shift under his boots.
A sheet of corrugated roofing slid sideways.
Dust burst upward.
Beneath it, something flashed.
Chrome.
Leo stopped.
He crouched.
Brushed aside dried weeds.
More metal appeared.
At first he thought it was part of a car bumper.
Then he found a wheel.
Not a car wheel.
Motorcycle.
His heart accelerated.
He called toward the yard.
“Frank!”
No answer.
“Frank!”
Still nothing.
Leo forgot him.
For the next three hours, he excavated.
He pulled away corrugated steel.
Dragged aside rotted plywood.
Cut through tangled desert vines.
Swept dirt with an old shop broom until the shape emerged.
A motorcycle.
Or what remained of one.
The front wheel pointed at an unnatural angle.
The forks had folded inward.
The gas tank was deeply dented on one side and blackened from fire.
The seat had been shredded by weather and animals.
The engine was hidden beneath years of baked oil and desert dust.
The rear fender was bent.
Most of the paint had disappeared.
But Leo knew motorcycles.
Not professionally.
Not yet.
He recognized the frame.
Harley-Davidson.
Late nineties.
Dyna.
He squinted at the surviving stamped numbers.
“Super Glide,” he whispered.
A 1998 Dyna Super Glide.
Leo ran one gloved hand across the engine.
The machine was ruined.
Anyone sensible could see that.
But Leo did not see ruin the way sensible people did.
He saw systems.
Steel.
Fuel.
Compression.
Ignition.
Parts could be replaced.
Metal could be straightened.
Engines could be opened.
Frank finally appeared behind him.
The old man stood quietly for several seconds.
His cigarette burned unnoticed between two fingers.
“Well.”
Leo turned.
“What?”
Frank came closer.
“You found a ghost.”
Leo looked back at the motorcycle.
“You knew it was here?”
“I knew something was buried back here.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Frank crouched carefully.
His knees cracked.
“State troopers brought it in years ago.”
“How many?”
Frank thought.
“Twelve. Maybe thirteen.”
“What happened?”
“Wreck on old Route 66.”
Leo touched the scarred gas tank.
“Rider?”
“Didn’t make it.”
“Who was he?”
“No idea.”
“Nobody claimed the bike?”
Frank shook his head.
“Paperwork got messy. Troopers said insurance had written it off. Somebody was supposed to pick up the remains. Nobody ever did.”
“So you buried it?”
“I didn’t bury anything.”
Frank pointed toward the collapsed roofing.