Remembering that lesson, Leo corrected himself. "I know Dad wrote about a switch," he told Pete. "I don't know if it's still there."
Pete nodded approvingly. "That's how we do it."
By late morning, the engine components had passed the checks necessary to continue the rebuild, and the mechanics returned to the difficult work of assembling a machine that did not fit an ordinary service schedule. Big Dave handled the heavier components, careful to follow the specifications confirmed by Arthur's records and the measurements his team had taken. Tommy inspected the custom valve train and checked the alignment several times, because the earlier damaged pieces had made him distrust his own haste. Rusty observed everything and recorded the results, refusing to call any step finished until another experienced mechanic had checked it independently.
Leo watched the work from his crate for a while, then wandered with Nora into the office for lunch. Rusty had bought sandwiches and fruit for everyone, and Nora insisted on helping set out the meal rather than waiting to be served. The adults were surprised to discover how much Leo could eat when he had spent the morning thinking hard. He finished his sandwich, accepted half of his mother's apple, and asked if he could draw while the mechanics continued.
At the office table, he sketched the motorcycle from memory, labeling the parts he knew and leaving blank spaces beside those he did not. Nora watched him carefully. "You haven't said much about your father since we opened the locker," she observed. "Are you all right?"
Leo lowered his pencil. "I keep thinking he must have stood right where Mr. Dave is standing. He touched those same parts. But I can't remember what his voice sounded like when he was healthy." He seemed embarrassed by the admission.
"I remember the coughing better. I hate that."
Nora put down her sandwich. She had heard versions of that fear before, especially around the anniversary of Arthur's death. The boy wanted his memories to remain exact, as though forgetting one sound might make the person himself disappear.
"You don't have to remember every part of him," she said. "That's why we tell stories. I remember things you don't, and you remember things I missed. Between us, we keep making the picture clearer."
"What if I forget the jokes?"
"I'll tell them again," she said. "And you'll laugh at the same bad ones just to make me happy."
Leo smiled. "Dad's jokes were pretty bad."
"Worse than his pancakes," Nora answered. "And that's saying something."
They sat together while trucks rattled past the open bay doors. For the first time that week, Leo allowed himself to think about the possibility that the repair could fail without meaning he had failed his father. He had found the locker and the notes, and that discovery was his regardless of what happened on Friday. It was enough to make him feel a little less afraid, though he still looked up every time a mechanic called for another tool.
Across the workshop, Pete made an important discovery. Beneath the left side of the fuel tank, hidden where the old diagram suggested, sat a tiny toggle switch whose metal lever was almost invisible against the darker frame. It was protected by a small recess and could be reached only by someone who already knew it existed. The old wiring matched Arthur's sketch in broad outline, but a later modification had left part of the accessory circuit drawing power when the motorcycle was parked.