“Yard moved around it.”
Leo stared at him.
“Same difference.”
Frank shrugged.
Leo looked at the motorcycle again.
“Can I have it?”
Frank laughed so hard he coughed.
“You serious?”
“Yes.”
“Kid, that engine is probably fused solid.”
“I can fix it.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I can try.”
“The frame may be bent.”
“I’ll check it.”
“The transmission could be garbage.”
“I’ll open it.”
Frank studied him.
“You got money for parts?”
“No.”
“Tools?”
“Some.”
“Title?”
Leo hesitated.
“No.”
“Experience rebuilding a Harley that spent twelve years getting cooked under sheet metal?”
“No.”
Frank flicked ash into the dirt.
“Excellent business plan.”
Leo looked at him.
“Can I have it or not?”
Frank sighed.
“You want to waste your free time on it, go ahead.”
Leo smiled.
“But.”
The smile disappeared.
“Your sorting numbers drop, the motorcycle becomes scrap again.”
“Deal.”
“And if some old paperwork turns up proving it belongs to somebody, it goes.”
Leo nodded, barely hearing that part.
“All right.”
Frank pointed a cigarette at him.
“And don’t use my hydraulic press without asking.”
“Okay.”
“I mean it.”
“Okay.”
“You already planning to use it?”
“No.”
Frank stared.
Leo stared back.
Frank muttered, “Liar.”
That afternoon, Leo built the beginning of a shelter around the motorcycle using discarded pipe and a torn blue tarp.
The project consumed him almost immediately.
Every day started the same.
Work first.
Copper sorting.
Wire stripping.
Parts inventory.
Then, when Frank decided he had earned his five-dollar hours, Leo disappeared into the back of Section G.
He began by cleaning.
Not because cleaning would repair anything, but because dirt hid information.
He scraped hardened oil from the engine with a screwdriver.
Used diesel to loosen grime.
Removed damaged tins.
Photographed every cable route with an old prepaid phone before disconnecting anything.
He had no service manual at first.
So he found one online through the Barstow library computers and printed pages ten at a time because the librarian started glaring when he used too much toner.
Three weeks into the project, Sarah discovered what he was doing.
She found his hands soaking in the kitchen sink at midnight.
Both were scraped.
One knuckle was bleeding.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Leo.”
“Motorcycle.”
She closed her eyes.
“What motorcycle?”
“Project.”
“What project?”
He made the mistake of hesitating.
Sarah grabbed her keys.
Twenty minutes later, she stood beneath the blue tarp staring at the wreck.
“This?”
Leo crossed his arms.
“Yes.”
“This is what you’ve been coming home bleeding from?”
“It’s not that bad.”
“It looks like someone dropped it out of an airplane.”
“It was a wreck.”
“That improves nothing.”
“I can fix it.”
Sarah looked at him.
“Why?”
He hated that question because he had no answer simple enough.
“Because.”
“That is not an answer.”
Leo stared at the machine.
“Because nobody else did.”
Sarah’s anger weakened.
She knew her son too well.
“That’s not about the motorcycle.”
“Yes, it is.”