Forty minutes into the first bike, he became aware that someone was watching him.
The man sat on an overturned crate fifteen feet away with a coffee cup in one hand. Late forties or early fifties. Leaner than Doyle, not small, but built differently. The stillness around him had a trained quality. He was not waiting impatiently. He was holding position.
Eli kept working.
After another ten minutes, the man stood and approached. He crouched beside the rear wheel of the motorcycle Eli was cleaning and ran one finger beneath the lower frame.
“You’re doing the undercarriage.”
“It was the dirtiest part.”
“Most people skip it.”
“Most people are wrong.”
The man made a sound that might have been a laugh.
“Boon Keller.”
“Eli Mercer.”
Boon’s eyes moved over him, cataloging rather than judging.
“You know anything about engines?”
“Some.”
“Who taught you?”
“My dad showed me things when I was little. Mostly I look.”
“You learn fast?”
“Fast enough.”
Boon nodded once and walked away.
By the time Eli finished the fourth motorcycle, his fingers had stopped feeling entirely like fingers. He could move them, but sensation arrived late and incomplete. He warmed them under his armpits for twenty seconds and kept going.
Stopping would mean deciding whether he had enough strength to continue.
He did not want to ask himself that question.
The fifth bike was half finished when Raina returned. She did not ask how it was going. She walked around the four completed motorcycles and inspected them in silence. Her thumb ran beneath the lower frame of one. She checked the engine housing of another. She examined the rims, the underside of the exhaust, the mudguard, the seat seams.
“Stop.”
Eli set the brush down.
“Come inside.”
At the long table, Raina placed a plate in front of him.
Two fried eggs. Three strips of bacon. Thick sourdough toasted in butter. A glass of orange juice. Another cup of coffee, this one with a little milk in it.
Eli stared at the plate longer than he meant to.
Food had recently become quantity. Bread was bread. Peanut butter was calories. Crackers were how long they lasted if you ate six instead of twelve. This plate looked like someone had made it with attention.
He picked up the fork.
He did not eat fast. Hunger taught speed, but experience taught consequences. Eating too quickly after too little food made his stomach cramp. So he forced himself to take small bites even though every part of him wanted the entire plate gone immediately.
Raina drank coffee and watched without making him self-conscious about the watching.
When he finished, she said, “You owe me three bikes.”
“I know.”
“You’ll finish tomorrow.”
“I can finish now.”
“No.”
He looked up.
“You need sleep.”
“I’m okay.”
“You’re thirteen, wearing two coats indoors, and your eyes look like you’ve been awake since Tuesday. Whatever you think you’re hiding, it’s visible.”
Eli said nothing.
“You come back tomorrow at six.”
“I have school at seven forty-five.”
“Five-thirty, then. You finish by seven. You go to school.”
He thought about the walk home and the alarm he would have to set and how much sleep that left him.
“You’re not worried I won’t come back?”
Raina took a drink of coffee.
“I’m not worried about much.”
He stood, then hesitated.
“Ma’am?”
She looked up.
“How long has my dad’s name been on your vest?”