Mack raised one finger.
“Not so fast.”
Leo’s face tightened.
“School first.”
“I can work.”
“I asked if you want work. I didn’t say you get to invent labor laws.”
Sully laughed.
Leo glared.
Mack continued.
“I can take you as a supervised apprentice if your caseworker approves it.”
“I know motorcycles.”
“Some.”
Leo’s pride reacted.
Mack saw it.
“You know enough to be dangerous.”
“That’s what people say when they don’t—”
“And you know enough to save a man in the desert.”
Leo stopped.
“Both can be true.”
Mack pointed toward bay three.
“If you work here, you learn properly.”
“How?”
“First lesson.”
“What?”
“Sweep.”
Leo stared.
Sully laughed harder.
“I lived three weeks in a gas station.”
“Then you’re experienced.”
“I can rebuild carburetors.”
“Great.”
Mack handed him a broom.
“You’ll sweep faster.”
That was how Leo Gallagher’s second life began.
Not with 247 motorcycles.
Not with a dramatic patch ceremony.
Not with leather and chrome.
With a broom.
For twelve hours each week, Leo worked at Desert Iron.
He swept.
Organized parts.
Cleaned tools.
Changed oil under supervision.
Learned shop procedures.
Mack made him label every removed bolt.
Leo complained.
Mack made him do it twice.
He learned torque specifications instead of relying on feel.
Electrical diagnosis instead of guesswork.
Modern fuel injection.
Frame geometry.
Wheel alignment.
Documentation.
Most importantly, Mack taught him the difference between improvisation and repair.
One afternoon, Leo defended his desert patch.