Leo's ribs hurt every time he breathed, and he knew exactly how he looked. Still, he raised his chin. 'That doesn't make the engine less broken.'
For the first time, something other than suspicion passed through the stranger's expression. It might have been amusement. It might have been the simple recognition of an answer he had not expected.
'That yours?' the biker asked, glancing toward the station.
'No. Nobody's been here in years.'
'And you have a shop in there?'
'What I've got is a place to work and a lot of old parts.' Leo swallowed. 'Give me an hour. If I can't help, you haven't lost anything but time.'
The biker looked over his shoulder again. The highway was empty, but the gaze lingered in a way that made Leo's skin tighten. Then the man looked at the open garage and at the teenager standing in its doorway.
'An hour,' he said. 'And if you make it worse, you tell me before I try to start it.'
Leo nodded, unable to stop the strange relief rising in his chest. The rider gripped the handlebars and began pushing the heavy machine toward the bay. Leo moved to the other side to help, and together they guided the Road King over the cracked concrete threshold.
The garage smelled of rust, hot dust, and old rubber. As the last sunlight caught the bike's damaged engine, Leo forgot for one brief, astonishing moment that he was hungry, hunted, and seventeen. In front of him was a machine with a problem, and his father had taught him how to listen.
In the light coming through the roof, the Road King looked bigger than it had outside. Its black paint was scratched along the left side, one crash bar was bent inward, and the mirror on the same side hung at an angle. Gravel was trapped in the folds of the rider's torn sleeve. Whatever had forced the motorcycle off the road had happened hard and recently, and Leo noticed a dark smear on the fuel tank where the man's injured shoulder must have struck it.
'You go down?' Leo asked.
'Got crowded off the road.' The biker gave the answer reluctantly, as if even admitting it wasted time. 'I'm still here. The bike isn't cooperating.'
Leo crouched without touching anything. He watched a drop gather at the damaged cover, fall to the floor, and leave a dark spot in the dust. Another drop followed. The smell of gasoline was sharp enough that he asked Sully to move the machine farther from the old workbench and its pile of dry rags.
The request made the big man look at him more carefully. 'You always this particular?'
'Only when I don't want the whole place to catch fire.'
Sully grunted, but he helped move the bike. Leo laid a square of discarded sheet metal beneath the engine so he could separate fresh leaks from old stains on the concrete. He found a stiff brush and swept grit away from the damage. Then he studied the torn hose, the narrow crack in the outer cover, and the place where the machine had scraped along the road.