"I've chased the ignition for three days," Frank began. "The old harness is a mess. I fixed what I found, checked the coil, cleaned the fuel system, and made sure the engine itself wasn't locked up. She still won't fire. We may be looking at a complete tear-down and rewire."
Wilson gave a brief laugh. "So you did all that and got nowhere."
"I've done more than you could do with both hands and a year's lessons," Frank answered, then immediately regretted answering at all.
Cole spat his toothpick into the scrap bin but missed. "Maybe we brought it to the wrong mechanic."
Jim said nothing. He traced the edge of the black tank with one finger, stopping at the old dent. His hand looked almost gentle against the scratched metal. "I rode this thing to Sturgis in eighty-eight," he said finally. "My brother sat behind me all the way back from Oakland once. He was bleeding through his shirt, and he kept telling me to go faster."
The two younger men stopped moving. They had heard pieces of that story, though not from Jim's own mouth. His brother had survived the journey but not the years that followed. The Harley had been present for things Jim never described in complete sentences. That was why he refused to leave it dead in a roadside shop.
"Metal gets tired," Frank said carefully. "Even good metal."
Jim looked at him. "You telling me that, or yourself?"
Frank had no answer. He could feel every unfinished repair in the shop behind him, every missed payment, every morning when opening the doors had seemed harder than closing them forever. He was suddenly furious at the motorcycle for standing there and making those failures visible. "I'm telling you I've done what I can," he said. "Take it somewhere else if you want. I'm not charging the labor."
Wilson moved a step closer. "You don't get to waste a man's time and tell him to take it somewhere else."
Cole's shoulders tightened. Frank's pride told him to meet the challenge. The older, more sensible part of him told him to shut his mouth. He looked toward the open bay and wondered whether anyone outside could hear the conversation. Leon, watching from the shadows, recognized a danger that had nothing to do with machinery.
Then the boy remembered the crushed black wire.
"Excuse me."
Nobody noticed the first attempt. Leon's voice disappeared beneath the box fan and the sound of Cole shifting his boots. The boy swallowed and tried again, louder this time. "Excuse me, mister."
Four heads turned toward the crate. Leon stood beside it with one dusty hand pressed against his shirt. The other hung at his side, his fingers curling and uncurling without his permission. He could see Frank's face change from surprise to alarm, and for one frightened second he wished he had never spoken at all. Going unnoticed had kept him safe many times before. Stepping into the middle of three angry men felt like forgetting every useful thing he had ever learned.