"How's she doing?" Leo asked as soon as he saw Rusty.
"Everything we can check without running her looks good," Rusty answered. "That's not a guarantee, but it's enough to make a proper attempt." He studied the boy. "You slept?"
"Mostly."
"Ate breakfast?"
"Mom made eggs."
Rusty nodded. "Then you're ahead of me. I've been awake since five, and all I managed was coffee."
Nora gave him a look. "You sound like someone who could use the same rules you give my son."
The remark drew a smile from everyone nearby. Rusty accepted a sandwich she had brought from home and promised to eat it before the visitors arrived. It was a small, ordinary kindness, but he found himself more grateful for it than he had been for most of the praise he received from wealthy customers. When Nora and Leo went to sit in the office, he ate slowly and watched his mechanics moving around the black motorcycle with growing confidence.
At ten thirty, a delivery truck arrived with a box Rusty had ordered earlier in the week. He carried it to the bench and found spare fittings that were no longer needed, a reminder of how many possible explanations they had considered before understanding Arthur's notes. He did not feel embarrassed by the unnecessary order; troubleshooting sometimes required preparing for outcomes that never came. What mattered was whether the next decision followed evidence rather than pride.
At eleven, Bobby called to say the riders had gathered and would leave within half an hour. His tone was different from Tuesday's, less boastful and more careful. "Jim's hardly spoken all morning," he said. "He's got Dutch's old helmet in the truck. He keeps looking at it like he expects an answer."
"We'll be ready," Rusty said.
"Is Leo there?"
"Yes, with his mother."
Bobby hesitated. "Tell him I owe him an apology. Actually, don't tell him. I'll do it when we get there."
Rusty hung up, pleased by the call but unwilling to attach too much meaning to it yet. People could be thoughtful when they expected a happy ending, and he wanted to see what they would do if the machine gave them trouble. He had learned that respect shown only after success was less valuable than respect shown while the outcome remained uncertain. It was a lesson he intended to remember when the bikers came through the doors.
At eleven forty-five, the familiar rumble began in the distance. The sound traveled down the industrial street like a rolling wave, deep enough to make the windows tremble. The motorcycle riders appeared around the corner in a line that seemed twice as long as Tuesday's procession, followed by the flatbed truck that would carry Dutch's machine to the starting point of Saturday's memorial ride. Twenty riders pulled into the lot, their polished chrome flashing beneath the pale sun.
Jim Mercer entered first. He had left his sunglasses on this time, and his gray beard moved slightly in the breeze from the open bay doors. Behind him came Bobby and the others, men whose expressions ranged from hopeful curiosity to the guarded seriousness of those who did not want to be disappointed in public. Jim noticed the clean work area, the organized papers, and the black FXR standing ready beneath the workshop lights.