The first attempt produced only a dry, hesitant rotation. The engine turned. It did not catch.
Leon felt his stomach drop. He had imagined this moment so often that the reality of its failure seemed almost unbearable. He remembered his hand slipping on Wednesday and thought of all the parts he might have put back incorrectly. Frank checked the test controls and tried again. The engine responded with another tired mechanical sound, then fell quiet.
Jim did not sneer or tap his watch. He simply watched. That silence made Leon even more anxious. The boy studied the machine, searching for some overlooked detail the way he had searched beneath the Shovelhead. His eyes moved over the little carburetor, the ignition components, the test fuel supply, and the connection points they had carefully documented that morning.
"Mr. Frank," he said. "Can we check the fuel setting again?"
Frank turned toward him. "What makes you think that's the issue?"
"Because it's turning. And you said the spark was okay. It sounded almost different the second time, like it was trying. What if it isn't getting the mixture right?"
Jim's expression changed by a fraction. Frank considered the boy's reasoning and nodded. They reviewed the adjustment and corrected a small setting under Frank's supervision, taking their time instead of rushing toward the result everyone wanted. Leon stood back afterward, hands pressed together so tightly that the bandage creased.
"All right," Frank said. "One more try."
The little engine turned. There was a brief, brittle pop. Leon barely dared to breathe. Another rough sound followed, a moment of sputtering that could have died into silence like the attempts before it. Then the Honda caught and began to run.
It was not a graceful sound. The motor rattled unevenly, its exhaust coughing as it found an idle that was still far from perfect. The frame trembled against the secure support and a faint haze of old residue rose into the moving shop air. Frank watched his instruments and listened for anything that required an immediate shutdown. Jim stood completely still, his head tilted slightly, recognizing the remarkable fact inside all that mechanical imperfection.
The engine was running.
Leon stared at the vibrating machine, unable to make sense of what his eyes were reporting. For days, the Honda had been a collection of stubborn metal, rust, ruined rubber, and uncertainty. Now it produced a sound from within itself, a sound that belonged to no other machine in the garage. It was uneven, noisy, and beautiful. He remembered the man who had planned to send it to the dump and wondered what he would say if he could hear it now.
"She's alive," Leon whispered.
Frank glanced at him. The boy's face was smudged with dirt and his eyes were wet, though he seemed unaware of it. For once, Frank did not make a joke about tears. He watched Leon watching the engine, and a feeling of pride moved through him so strongly that he had to look back at the machine.