"It's not guaranteed," Sully said. "She doesn't hire people because I like them. She hires people because she thinks they can work."
Leo ran his finger along the card. "Does she know I ran away?"
"She knows enough," Sully said. "And she knows you had good reasons. What she'll care about is whether you show up on time and tell the truth when you mess up a job."
Mara Kline had a voice that could cut through workshop noise without becoming a shout. At fifty-two she had spent more than thirty years working on engines, first in her father's garage and later in shops where some customers had refused to let a woman examine their motorcycles. She had learned to turn insult into concentration, and she had no patience for people who confused expertise with size or volume. When Leo first walked into Cinder Road Customs, she was standing beside a lift with a pencil behind one ear and a streak of grease across her forehead.
"You're Sully's desert miracle," she said. There was no awe in her tone. "He says you kept a damaged Road King from making a bad day worse."
Leo tried to explain that he had only made a temporary repair. Mara gave a short approving nod. "Good. A kid who says he can fix anything is a kid I won't let near my customers. Show me what you know, and tell me what you don't." She pointed toward a workbench where an old carburetor had been disassembled into neatly arranged parts.
The interview was practical. Mara asked him to identify components, explain ordinary faults, and choose which observations would require a qualified mechanic to stop work and inspect further. When he did not recognize a part, Leo admitted it. When he recognized one that Mara had deliberately placed out of sequence, he pointed it out without sounding pleased with himself.
After half an hour, Mara set down her pencil. "Somebody taught you to pay attention," she said.
"My dad," Leo answered. "Daniel Gallagher. Reno."
The older woman's expression shifted. "Gallagher?" she repeated. "Was his shop out near the industrial road west of town?"
Leo stared at her. "You knew him?"
"I met him twice at a parts trade show," Mara said. "He helped me sort out a ridiculous electrical problem on a customer's old bike. Wouldn't take money. Said he was glad someone else hated mysterious rattles as much as he did." She smiled faintly. "I didn't know he had a son."
Leo lowered his head because his eyes were suddenly burning. In all the years since Daniel's death, people had spoken about his father mostly in the language of paperwork: deceased parent, former occupation, next of kin. Mara had offered him something different without knowing it. She had remembered Daniel as a man who knew how to solve a problem and enjoyed helping another mechanic.