Rusty stepped closer, sensing that Jim had something more to say. The big man turned toward him with an expression that made the shop owner stand straighter out of habit. "This boy needs a place where his questions are welcome," Jim said. "Not a full-time job at eight. I understand the difference. I want you to arrange safe, age-appropriate mentoring with Nora's permission, so he can learn about mechanics without giving up school or being put near work that isn't safe for him."
Rusty nodded slowly. "I can do that. I used to teach evening classes at the community workshop. We can start with drawings, simple models, and lessons he can understand. When he's old enough for formal training, we can help him apply for a proper apprenticeship."
"Good," Jim said. "And when he's ready for college, the people who cared about Dutch are going to help with tuition if he wants to study engineering. We'll put the money into an education fund with Nora involved in the arrangements. It won't depend on him joining anybody's club or repairing another motorcycle."
Nora pressed her hand against her mouth. For two years, she had been calculating how to pay the next bill, not imagining how to prepare for the distant costs of her son's education. She had tried not to discuss college in front of Leo, afraid of awakening expectations she might never be able to meet. Hearing a man she barely knew speak about her child's future made her grateful and cautious at the same time.
"I don't want promises made because everyone's emotional right now," she said. "He's eight. He needs stability far more than he needs a dramatic story about what he might become."
Jim nodded. "You're right. We'll put it in writing, and you can review it with somebody you trust before agreeing. My word ought to be worth something, but a proper plan is worth more than a good speech." He glanced at Leo.
"You heard your mother. School comes first."
"Yes, sir," Leo said.
Dave ruffled the boy's hair with a gentleness that seemed impossible from such a large hand. "And when you're a grown engineer," he said, "you can come back and tell us how many things we've been doing wrong."
"I already know a few," Leo replied.
Tommy groaned. "Don't encourage him."
For a brief, bright moment, Apex Iron Works felt more like a family gathering than a place that had nearly been crushed by a deadline. The riders helped clear the loading lane while the mechanics completed the final documentation and prepared the motorcycle for transport. Jim wanted the FXR ridden at the memorial, not merely displayed, but Rusty insisted on a controlled verification of its road readiness before anyone put it in a procession. This time Jim agreed without argument, and the additional checks became one more sign that the bike deserved care rather than impatience.
Leo stood at the edge of the bay with Nora while the black machine was prepared for the flatbed. The sunlight struck its tank, revealing scratches that no polishing could erase, and he thought how strange it was that people had called those scratches damage when they were also evidence of every journey the motorcycle had survived. He wondered how many times Arthur had touched the same chrome, how many nights Dutch had come home with the engine ticking beneath him, and how many stories the old FXR would tell if it could use words instead of sound.