The starter turned once. Twice. The engine coughed, hesitated, and came awake with a roar that filled the station and seemed to strike the hills beyond it. Leo watched the fuel bypass first. No movement. No spray. He watched the cover next. No new drops appeared beneath the patch.
He could feel the motor through the soles of his worn shoes. It was not running perfectly, but it was running. After a short interval he raised his hand, and Sully shut the engine off.
In the sudden silence, Leo heard the wind tapping the metal sign outside. His hands shook more now than they had during the repair.
'Well?' Sully asked.
'You can get to a shop if you're careful. Maybe.' Leo swallowed. 'You need someone to replace that cover and make the fuel line permanent. And you need your shoulder looked at.'
Sully stayed on the motorcycle, studying him. 'You know what a lot of grown men would've done?'
'What?'
'Wrapped tape around it, told me I was good for a hundred miles, and charged me for the privilege.'
Leo rubbed his hands together. 'My dad said never make a customer pay for a lie.'
The biker nodded once, slowly. Then he unfastened the remaining saddlebag and searched inside. He looked frustrated when he found only loose receipts, a folded map, and a small bottle of water. The other saddlebag had apparently been lost along the road.
'I don't have cash,' he said. 'And I don't have much of anything I can leave you that would be worth your time.'
'I didn't ask for money.'
'Which is why you ought to get something.'
Sully reached into his vest and produced a tarnished silver Zippo lighter. On the front was an engraved skull, its eyes worn smooth by years of a thumb passing over the metal. The hinge had a tiny dent. Sully turned it over once, as though remembering a thought, and offered it across the narrow space between them.
Leo took it carefully. It was heavier than he expected and warm from the biker's pocket.
'Keep that,' Sully said. 'Had it a long time.'
'I can't take something important.'
'You already did something important. I'm making the trade.'
Leo looked down at the skull. 'Why this?'
'Because I never gave it away before.'
The words settled between them. Sully stepped off the bike, walked to the open doorway, and looked once more toward the highway. When he turned back his voice had changed. He was not making a speech; he was stating something as ordinary and permanent as a repair completed well.
'My name is Jack Sullivan. Most people call me Sully. What happened on that road didn't give you any reason to help me, and you did it anyway. I don't forget that, Leo.'
Leo closed his hand around the lighter. 'You don't owe me anything.'
Sully almost smiled. 'You let me decide what I owe.'
He took a scrap of cardboard, wrote down a phone number, and set it on the bench. 'If you get to a working phone, call. Ask for Sully. Someone will know how to find me.'
'What if they don't believe me?'
'Tell them you repaired the Road King with a refrigerator and a junkyard.'