In the afternoon, Nora returned to work and Leo spent a limited period reading in the office while the adults continued. Rusty did not allow the boy to hover near the engine for hours, explaining that the shop had to be safe and ordinary even when everybody was excited. He set aside a small stack of old motorcycle magazines and a clean table where Leo could draw, and he reminded him that the best engineers also learned patience away from their projects. Leo accepted the arrangement more readily than Rusty expected.
Shortly after three, Jim Mercer called. Rusty stepped into the office so the boy would not hear a difficult conversation by accident. "We've found the modifications Arty documented," he reported. "We've inspected the spare parts, and we're completing the rebuild. Pete also located the hidden switch and a later wiring fault that explains much of the trouble with the battery."
Jim was quiet for a few seconds. "Are you telling me she'll run?"
"I'm telling you we have real reasons to believe she can," Rusty said. "I won't promise an outcome before we test it."
"That's a different answer from Tuesday," Jim observed.
"It's a more honest one."
Jim breathed out slowly. "Then I'll be there at noon tomorrow. I want it done right, Rusty. Dutch hated shortcuts, no matter what stories he told about riding fast." He paused. "How's the boy?"
"Tired, excited, and trying hard not to show either one," Rusty said. "His mother is keeping him grounded."
"Good. I remember how Arty looked at his family when he talked about them. He never had much money, but he'd light up when he said the kid had asked a question he couldn't answer right away." There was another pause.
"Tell Leo I appreciate what he's done. But don't tell him I need him to save the world. That's a heavy thing to put on an eight-year-old."
Rusty looked through the office window. Leo sat hunched over a notebook, drawing a larger version of the small hidden switch and checking the proportions against his father's sketch. He was so absorbed that he had not noticed Rusty's gaze. "I think we're all learning that," Rusty answered.
When the call ended, Jim stayed seated in his own garage with the silent phone in his hand. Dutch's photograph hung above a workbench cluttered with old maps and spare riding gloves. In the photograph, Dutch stood in front of the FXR in Reno, wearing a faded black shirt and grinning at the camera while Arthur Hayes, younger and thinner, crouched beside the engine holding up an oil-stained wrench. Jim had forgotten the photograph existed until he began searching for it the previous night.
He carried it to the kitchen and set it beneath the light. The two men looked impossibly alive, young enough to believe that neither illness nor age would ever catch them. Jim remembered the motel parking lot, the stubborn repairs, and the way Dutch had refused to leave until Arty finished the unusual engine arrangement. He remembered complaining about the delay, then laughing when Dutch replied that a motorcycle worth keeping was worth waiting for.
For years, Jim had believed that paying attention to a man's possessions was the same as honoring the man. He kept Dutch's tools organized, washed the old dog when she became muddy, and checked the garage locks twice each night. He had avoided speaking to Dutch's sister about the funeral because every conversation threatened to expose how deeply he missed his friend. Now a child who had lost his own father was showing him that remembering someone did not require silence.