The first test was modest. Then we repeated the conditions that had produced the fault earlier, building load only within the controlled range we could safely use. Five minutes passed without interruption. Then ten. The ignition trace remained steady, and the motor held its rhythm under conditions that had made it fail that morning. We repeated the sequence after the machine warmed thoroughly, looking for the problem to return.
It did not. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to sit down. I wanted Hector to walk in, inspect the notebook, and tell me I had forgotten some obvious step so I could argue with him before he admitted he was pleased.
Instead, I heard Frank's voice over the equipment noise. "Write the result down while it's fresh."
I did. Test conditions, duration, temperatures, observations, and the one sentence that mattered: original failure not reproduced following correction of unauthorized modification. It was evidence of progress, not a guarantee that every possible hazard had vanished. Frank made sure I understood the difference.
At five forty-five, he signed the inspection notes and helped me organize the photographs. He had other commitments that evening, so we arranged a further safety check with a separate specialist before the motorcycle returned to highway use. Then he stood beside the workbench and looked at the steel sleeve on its white rag.
"You know what this might be?" he asked.
"I have an idea."
"Then be careful about who hears that idea first. Your uncle would want you safe, not famous."
He put a hand on my shoulder and left as the sunlight began to turn orange along the top of the opposite wall. I wiped down the red paint and checked the clock. Five fifty-two. Sunset was still some time away.
I had given Grip what I promised: a reproducible failure, an explanation backed by measurements, a documented correction, and a clear statement of what remained before the bike could safely return to the road. Now I had to tell him something no one had told him in eight months. The trouble might not have been accidental.
I dialed his number. He answered after two rings.
"Done?"
"The fault is corrected on the test stand," I said. "But I can't release the bike for highway riding until the follow-up safety inspection, and there's something you need to see. Please bring one person you trust."
He was silent for long enough that I thought the line had dropped.
"What did you find?" he asked.
"Something that wasn't supposed to be inside your motorcycle."
Another silence, shorter this time.
"Twenty minutes," he said.
I set down the phone. Outside, the valley was turning the color of old copper. I folded my notes into the folder, placed the unfamiliar steel sleeve at the center of the workbench, and waited for the sound of his engine.