Frank walked toward them. "Jim. How's the Harley?"
"First kick this morning." Jim's eyes traveled into the shop and found Leon on his milk crate. "Everything sounds right. Came to say thanks."
Frank nodded, accepting the words without quite trusting how easy they were. Then Jim reached for the tailgate. The metal dropped with a crash that made Leon nearly lose his grip on a bolt. Wilson climbed into the truck bed and dragged a narrow ramp into place.
Something rusty appeared above the tailgate. At first Leon thought it was a child's bicycle without pedals. Then Wilson pulled it farther back and the shape resolved into a small motorcycle with thick, cracked tires and a folding handlebar. It had once been red. What remained of the paint looked like reddish dust trapped beneath decades of rust.
"What is that thing?" Frank asked.
"Old Honda CT70," Jim said. "Found it behind a barn near Henderson. Owner was clearing the place before sale, and the scrap truck was coming the next morning."
Wilson pushed it down the ramp, one squeaking wheel at a time. The seat cushion was missing, exposing a stained metal pan. The handlebars were scarred, the fuel tank was badly corroded, and the small engine looked as if the earth had been trying to reclaim it. A frayed cable dangled near the front forks. The machine came to rest in the middle of the garage, where the Shovelhead had stood three days before, and the difference between the two was almost comical.
Frank stared. "If you're asking me to bring that thing back, the answer is no. I already have three paying jobs waiting. And I don't have half those parts."
"Wasn't asking you," Jim said.
He walked past Frank toward Leon. The boy stood up automatically, his gloved hands hanging stiffly at his sides. Jim stopped beside the parts tray, inspected the row of cleaned hardware, and gave one approving nod.
"You did that work?"
"Yes, sir."
"Looks better than it did when it came out of the box." Jim pointed toward the little Honda. "That one was going to the junkyard. Figure it's about your size."
Leon stared at it. He saw the rust, the bald patches on the tires, and the missing seat. He also saw the curves of the little frame, the way the compact engine hung beneath it, and the possibility of something that belonged to him for reasons nobody could change with an angry mood. He had never owned a bicycle that worked for more than a few weeks. The thought of owning a motorcycle seemed too large to fit inside his chest.
"It's broke," he said softly.
"Sure is." Jim leaned a hand against the bench. "You noticed something the rest of us missed. This time you won't have a working bike to look at. You have to find the answers yourself."