Sully looked at the scattered tools, a water-stained bench, and the battery-powered lantern Leo had kept alive by rationing its use. "You really fixing machines in here?" he asked. Leo replied, "Mostly I'm trying to make one bicycle work."
Sully moved his motorcycle into the intact bay with Leo's help. Up close, the Road King looked worse than it had from the window. One side showed fresh scrape marks, a saddlebag was missing, and the rider's jacket had been torn where he had struck the gravel. The motorcycle's fuel and oil systems had both suffered damage, and Leo refused to touch anything until they had moved the machine away from spilled fuel and allowed the area to air out. Sully watched that precaution with the impatience of a man who wanted to be gone and the reluctant respect of one who knew why care mattered.
"You always this slow?" Sully asked when Leo insisted on checking the damage before trying to start the engine. "Only when someone might catch fire," Leo replied. The answer came out more sharply than he intended, and he flinched after saying it.
Sully looked at him for a long moment, then surprised him by nodding. "Fair enough, kid," he said. "Show me what you're seeing."
Leo took a breath and began. He pointed out the torn line, the damaged outer cover, and the places where fluid had spread too far to make the motorcycle safe for a real ride. He explained what could be checked without running the engine and what would require proper replacement parts at a functioning shop. The cracked housing worried him most; pretending a crude patch was permanent could cost Sully the engine or his life. There were pieces of compatible hardware in the wreckage outside, but finding something close was not the same as knowing it belonged on this particular machine.
"So you're saying it can't be done," Sully said. Leo shook his head. "I'm saying it can't be done the way you want it done. Maybe we can make it run long enough to move out of here and meet a tow or another rider. I won't tell you it's fixed just because I can make it make noise."
Sully studied the boy's thin face and the blue paint worn into the handles of his tools. "Who taught you to talk like that?" he asked. "My father," Leo said, and for the first time all evening his voice nearly broke. Sully did not ask what had happened to Leo's father right away.
Instead, he pulled an overturned milk crate near the doorway and sat down heavily, keeping pressure on his injured shoulder while Leo worked. The biker's silence was not the suspicious silence Hank used when he wanted a confession. It was closer to the silence Patrick used when he wanted Leo to think through a problem on his own. That difference mattered more than Leo was willing to admit.