The biker looked him over, from the oversized hoodie to the worn sneakers and the hollow spaces beneath his cheekbones. "Then you know enough to stay away from this one," he said. "I don't need an audience, kid." He turned back toward the Road King, but the pain in his shoulder made him pause before he reached for another tool.
"It's a ninety-eight Road King," Leo said. "Your primary side took a hit, and something in the fuel system is damaged too. You shouldn't start it again until you know what is leaking." He pointed at the ground without coming closer. "If you let me look, I can tell you whether it's repairable here. If it isn't, I'll say so."
The biker studied him for a long time. Then, to Leo's surprise, he asked, "How old are you?"
"Seventeen."
"Seventeen and alone in the desert." The man glanced at the darkening highway. "That's a rough place to be seventeen."
Leo said nothing, and the biker's expression changed by a degree. "I'm Jack Sullivan. People call me Sully. You got tools in there, or is this just one more bad idea I'm going to regret tonight?"
"A few tools," Leo said. "And a lot of junk."
Sully let out a reluctant breath that was almost a laugh. "Show me what you got, mechanic."
The garage looked even worse with Sully standing inside it. His shoulders nearly brushed a hanging length of electrical conduit, and his boots left heavy prints across the dusty concrete as he pushed the Road King into the only bay not completely filled with scrap. The machine seemed immense beside the makeshift bicycle on Leo's workbench. Sully surveyed the rusted tools, a cracked vise, and the collection of salvaged parts that Leo had separated into carefully labeled tins.
"You've been living here," Sully said. It was not a question, and Leo did not answer it. Instead he crouched beside the motorcycle, careful of his ribs, and leaned close enough to examine the damaged components without touching the hottest surfaces. The smell of gasoline hung in the room, making him immediately concerned about the open doorway and the dry debris scattered nearby.
"We need to move it away from that old heater," Leo said. "And we need light that doesn't make a spark. Your shoulder needs looking at, too." Sully glanced at the torn sleeve, apparently surprised that the teenager had thought about him rather than only the motorcycle. "I'll live," he said, though he allowed Leo to move the bike into the safest part of the open bay.
Leo worked slowly at first. He asked permission before removing parts and explained what he could tell from each sign of damage, partly to reassure the man and partly to settle his own nerves. There was a split in the fuel delivery line, impact damage around the primary cover, and a loose mounting bracket that had probably been rattling for miles. Some of the damage was superficial, but some was serious enough that Leo refused to promise a roadworthy repair.