“Leo.”
He turned away.
She looked at the pile of tools.
Pawn-shop sockets.
Old torque wrench.
Wire brushes.
Plastic tubs full of labeled bolts.
“You bought all this?”
“With my money.”
“You were supposed to be saving.”
“I am.”
“For school.”
“I know.”
“Your future.”
“I know.”
Sarah inhaled too sharply.
Her hand immediately went toward her pocket.
Leo saw it.
“Mom?”
“I’m fine.”
“You need the inhaler?”
“I said I’m fine.”
He hated that phrase.
They both used it when they weren’t.
She steadied her breathing.
Then looked again at the motorcycle.
“What would you even do with it if it ran?”
“Ride it.”
“You are fourteen.”
“When I’m old enough.”
Sarah raised one eyebrow.
“Try again.”
Leo sighed.
“Maybe sell it.”
“For what?”
He looked at her.
She understood.
“No.”
“Mom.”
“No.”
“Your medication—”
“My medication is not your responsibility.”
“It kind of is when you skip doses because the refill costs too much.”
Her face changed.
Leo immediately regretted saying it.
“You noticed.”
“Of course I noticed.”
She sat on an overturned wheel rim.
For a while, neither spoke.
Finally Sarah said, “You shouldn’t have to notice.”
Leo sat beside her.
“But I do.”
She touched the side of his head.
“You are still going back to school.”
He groaned.
“You can fix the motorcycle.”
He looked at her.
“But school.”
“Fine.”
“Not fine. Promise.”
“I promise.”
It was a promise neither of them knew exactly how to keep, but saying it mattered.
The engine was Leo’s first real war.
When he removed the spark plugs, rust dust came out.
The cylinders had seized.
He poured penetrating oil inside.
Waited.
Nothing.
He found an old mechanic online explaining a mixture of diesel and automatic transmission fluid sometimes used to free stuck components.
Frank called it witchcraft.
Leo tried it anyway.
He filled the cylinders.
Waited three days.
Tried the crank.
Nothing.
A week.
Nothing.
Two weeks.
Movement so small Leo thought he imagined it.
One millimeter.
Then back.
He nearly screamed.
He worked the crank every night.
Forward.
Back.
Forward.
Back.
Patience measured in fractions.
Frank began checking on him without admitting he was interested.
“Still dead?”
“Less dead.”
“That’s not a mechanical category.”
“It is now.”
After three weeks, the crank made a partial rotation.
Leo stood alone beneath the tarp grinning into the darkness.
He whispered, “Come on.”
The motorcycle gave no answer.
But it moved.
That was enough.
The more Leo dismantled, the more unusual details emerged.
The exhaust was custom.
Not aftermarket bolt-on pieces.