“We've already spent—”
“I don't care what you've spent.”
Jim's voice dropped.
“I want my brother's motorcycle running.”
Rusty glanced toward the men behind him.
“I can't invent an answer.”
“No.”
Jim nodded.
“But you can keep looking.”
The garage remained silent.
Rusty had a mortgage on the building.
A wife.
Employees.
Payroll.
Suppliers.
A reputation built across decades.
Jim did not need to threaten violence for Rusty to understand the pressure.
The club represented customers, friendships, referrals, and a community where reputation moved faster than advertisements ever could.
If Apex became the shop that took Dutch Sullivan's bike, took the money, and failed before his memorial, the damage would spread far beyond five thousand dollars.
Jim turned toward the exit.
That was when the small voice came from the shadows.
“You're checking the wrong timing marks.”
Everybody stopped.
Jim slowly looked back.
Rusty closed his eyes.
Not now.
Of all possible moments.
Not now.
He turned.
Leo stood near the wall holding a push broom.
The broom was taller than he was.
Leo was small even for eight.
Thin arms.
Narrow shoulders.
Faded shirt several sizes too large.
Jeans patched at one knee and pale from too many washings.
His sneakers had been repaired with glue where the rubber separated from the canvas.
A smear of black grease crossed one cheek.
Rusty pointed toward the back.
“Leo.”
The boy did not move.
“Go finish sweeping.”
“You're using the wrong timing marks.”
Bobby laughed.
“What's this?”
Rusty moved quickly toward the child.
“Nothing. He's just—”
Jim held up one hand.
Rusty stopped.
Jim stared at Leo.
“Come here.”
Leo gripped the broom.
For the first time since he spoke, uncertainty entered his face.
Rusty shook his head slightly, warning him.
Leo saw it.
Then looked at the FXR.
Something changed.
He placed the broom against the wall.
And walked forward.
The distance between him and Jim seemed absurd.
Jim could have hidden the boy behind one leg.
“What's your name?”
“Leo Hayes.”
“How old are you?”
“Eight.”
Bobby snorted.
Jim silenced him with one glance.
“Leo Hayes,” Jim repeated. “You said we're checking the wrong timing marks.”
“Yes, sir.”
“How would you know?”
Leo pointed toward the FXR.
“Because that motor isn't what the book says it is.”
Rusty's embarrassment became irritation.
“Leo, enough.”
“It isn't.”
Jim looked at Rusty.
“Let him talk.”
“He's a kid.”
“So?”
“He sweeps floors here.”
Leo's eyes dropped.
Rusty regretted the sentence almost immediately.
He had not meant it cruelly.
But he heard how it sounded.
Jim heard it too.
“What else does he do?”
Rusty sighed.
“His dad used to rent one of the rear bays years ago. Arthur Hayes.”
Jim's entire posture changed.
“Arty?”
Leo looked up.
“You knew my dad?”
Jim stared at him.
“Arthur Hayes was your father?”
Leo nodded.
Jim removed his sunglasses.
Behind him, Hank Ramirez, one of the older riders, muttered, “I'll be damned.”