Together, they rolled the Road King into the garage.
The moment Leo began examining the motorcycle, fear became background noise.
This was what machines did for him.
People were complicated.
Machines left clues.
He cleaned the damaged areas first, using what little solvent remained in an old cabinet.
The fuel line had torn badly enough that tape was useless.
A permanent replacement was impossible.
But the station’s scrap yard contained old refrigeration equipment.
Leo disappeared behind the building.
Sully followed more slowly.
“What are you looking for?”
“Something that can become something else.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“It usually is.”
Leo found several pieces of metal tubing and returned to the service bay.
He selected one that could be adapted without forcing the original fittings too badly.
Sully watched him work.
The teenager’s hands were dirty.
Thin.
Bruised across two knuckles.
But they moved with confidence.
Not speed.
Confidence.
Sully had known mechanics who rushed because they wanted the customer to believe they knew what they were doing.
Leo did the opposite.
He stopped constantly.
Looked.
Measured.
Adjusted.
Listened.
“Your father teach you that?”
Leo did not look up.
“Most of it.”
“Where?”
“Reno.”
“Shop?”
“Custom bikes.”
“Name?”
“Patrick Gallagher.”
Sully searched his memory.
“Don’t know him.”
“He died seven years ago.”
“Sorry.”
Leo shrugged the way children sometimes do when grief is too old to display and too permanent to disappear.
“He was good.”
“You sound sure.”
“I am.”
Leo adapted the damaged line enough to create a temporary bypass.
Then he checked the casing.
The crack worried him more.
A proper repair required equipment the dead station did not have.
He told Sully that.
“I can stop most of the leak.”
“Most?”