A line near the engine had split.
Fluid stained the lower casing.
A fresh crack showed near the primary housing.
The biker pulled out a roll of electrical tape.
Leo almost said something.
He stopped himself.
Not his problem.
The man wrapped the damaged section.
Tried the starter.
The Road King cranked.
Cough.
Backfire.
Dead.
Again.
Nothing.
The biker stood and kicked a stone hard enough to send it across the shoulder.
Leo stayed hidden.
Then headlights appeared far away on the highway.
The biker saw them too.
He stepped back into the darkness beside the station until the vehicle passed.
Leo understood.
This man was not merely stranded.
He was hiding.
The Road King had not gone down because of careless riding.
Someone had run him off the road.
The rider returned to the machine.
His injured arm hung lower now.
Leo looked toward the desert.
Night would arrive quickly.
Temperatures would fall.
Whoever had chased this man might return.
Leo whispered to himself:
“Not your problem.”
Patrick’s voice answered from memory.
If you understand the problem and you can help, walking away is a decision too.
Leo hated his father a little for having left behind sentences that still worked.
He stood.
Crossed the garage.
Pushed open the rusted side door.
The hinge shrieked.
The biker spun around instantly.
His right hand dropped toward the knife on his belt.
Leo froze and raised both hands.
“Tape isn’t going to hold that.”
The biker stared at him.
“What?”
Leo nodded toward the Harley.
“The line.”
The man’s eyes narrowed.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Leo.”
“Leo what?”
“Gallagher.”
The biker looked past him toward the empty station.
“Anybody else in there?”