“Do not run it again,” Martin said immediately. “Not until you know what you’re looking at.”
“I already stopped.”
“Good. And don’t promise the owner a miracle. A frame failure isn’t something you make safe with optimism.”
Caleb asked whether the hidden joint could have been accidental. Martin considered the description and said an old repair might be ugly or poorly documented, but a structural cut concealed under a fresh paint job raised questions no mechanic should ignore. He promised to review photographs as soon as Caleb sent them. If the damage was as serious as Caleb feared, Martin said, the motorcycle needed a proper structural assessment regardless of who owned it.
Caleb sent the pictures and looked at the clock: 5:07. Sundown was still three hours away, yet the daylight seemed to be leaving faster than it should. He had a job that could no longer be finished on the original terms, a dangerous customer who might refuse that answer, and a machine whose most beautiful part was hiding its ugliest secret. He took a slow breath, pushed the stool beneath the counter, and rolled the tool cart beside the lift. Then he began taking the Knucklehead apart.
The first pieces came away reluctantly. Years of careful assembly had made the Knucklehead a collection of interdependent decisions, each bracket shaped to clear another component by the smallest possible margin. Caleb marked every connection with numbered tags and photographed the routing before he disturbed it. The task seemed almost disrespectful even to him, as though he were dismantling an old man’s memories and laying them out in trays. But each part he removed gave him a better view of the tube beneath, and each view made the painted seam harder to explain.
He worked from a list rather than from panic. The exhaust came away, followed by the components that blocked access to the engine mounts. He disconnected the fuel system only after draining and securing what remained in the tank. The transmission had to be supported, the heavy engine removed from its usual position, and the fragile vintage pieces protected against the accidental damage that could ruin an entire job. These were familiar actions performed at a speed that made him intensely aware of every choice.
The shop filled with the ordinary music of disassembly: ratchets clicking, a chain hoist taking weight, metal laid carefully against a padded surface. Outside, a delivery van passed on the industrial road, and the driver briefly glanced toward the open garage. Caleb wanted to run after him and ask for help with something, though he could not have said what. What he needed was another pair of hands belonging to someone who knew the difference between speed and haste. What he had was a deadline and an empty building.