One handlebar sat slightly lower than the other.
The headlight lens was cracked.
There was no license plate.
The exhaust pipes were stained almost black.
Chloe walked around it.
“This runs?”
Arthur scratched his jaw.
“That depends on how generous you are with the definition.”
“What happened to it?”
“Towed in three days ago.”
“From where?”
“Old Route 58.”
“Owner?”
Arthur shook his head.
“None identified.”
He pointed toward the frame.
“VIN’s been damaged.”
Chloe crouched.
The identifying numbers had clearly been worked over sometime in the past.
“Stolen?”
“Maybe.”
“That’s comforting.”
“I told you this was bad news.”
Arthur tapped the tank.
“Tow driver found it partially hidden in a wash near an old service road. Probably exposed after recent grading or runoff.”
“It’s been there long?”
“Looks like years.”
“You said it ran.”
“I said the engine turned.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
Arthur looked almost proud.
“Your father taught you something.”
Chloe ignored that.
“What’s wrong with it?”
Arthur began counting.
“Frame might be tweaked. Rear suspension is terrible. Brakes are questionable. Wiring looks like three different people repaired it during three different wars. Carburetor leaks. Fuel line leaks. Clutch cable is nearly done.”
He pointed toward the seat.
“And whatever animal ate that apparently hated leather.”
Chloe placed her hand on the handlebar.
The metal burned her palm.
She pulled away.
“How much?”
Arthur laughed.
“No.”
“How much?”
“Chloe, this thing is dangerous.”
“So is staying.”
Arthur’s expression changed.
Chloe pushed the forty dollars toward him.
“I’ll take it.”
He did not take the money.
“Forty dollars doesn’t make this legal.”
“I don’t care.”
“You will when highway patrol stops you.”
“If Richard catches me before then, nothing else matters.”
Arthur looked at her bruises again.
Finally he accepted the bills.
Not because the motorcycle was worth forty dollars.
Because he understood she needed to feel she had bought something rather than received charity.
“All right.”
Chloe exhaled.
“But you listen to me.”
“I am.”
“This thing is not safe.”
“I know.”
“If it starts, you don’t push it.”
“I know.”
“If it starts making new noises—”
“It already looks like every noise will be new.”
Arthur almost smiled.
“Smart mouth like your father.”
For the next hour, they worked.
Arthur pulled a salvaged battery from behind his shop and improvised enough of the electrical connection to get current where it needed to go.
Chloe tightened a fuel fitting using David’s wrench.
Arthur cleaned part of the carburetor.
They found a section of usable hose.
He adjusted the clutch.
Chloe filled the tank with enough gasoline to get her east.
Every few minutes Arthur looked toward the road.
At one point he disappeared into his office and returned with a canvas jacket.
“Night gets cold.”
“I’m not going to be out that long.”
“You hope.”
She took it.
The jacket smelled like cigarettes and transmission fluid.
It was still better than freezing.
Eventually Arthur stepped back.
“Try.”
Chloe straddled the bike.
The machine felt enormous beneath her.
She barely touched the ground comfortably.
“You ever ridden one this big?” Arthur asked.
“No.”
His eyes widened.
“You told me you could ride.”
“I can ride motorcycles.”
“This is not a little Honda.”
“I noticed.”
Arthur muttered something Chloe chose not to hear.
She worked the controls.
Kicked.
Nothing.