He looked at his phone and saw three missed calls from a number he did not recognize. The fourth came while he was standing there. Caleb answered and heard Grip’s voice, loud against what sounded like a crowded room. “How’s my motorcycle?”
“I found something serious,” Caleb said.
“Serious good or serious bad?”
“The frame has hidden damage. I’ve documented it, and I need to show you.”
There was a pause. Somebody near Grip laughed at something Caleb could not hear. Then the biker spoke again, much quieter. “You told me you could fix it.”
“I told you I would look for the problem.”
“Sundown, Mercer. I’ll be there.”
The line went dead. Caleb stared at the screen, feeling as though he had just watched a door close at the end of a long hallway. He could not tell whether Grip had understood the danger or merely heard the word failure. He went back to his bench and reviewed the images he had taken. There was no mistake about what he had found. The machine had been carrying a hidden structural defect beneath a flawless finish.
By seven, the Knucklehead was reduced to a bare red frame, a heavy engine on its stand, and orderly ranks of detached components. Caleb stood in the center of the bay with his gloves off, breathing through his nose while the building creaked in the heat. The original plan had died long before the sunset deadline. There was no honest way to restore a complete, roadworthy motorcycle in an hour and guarantee that its frame would withstand every load it might encounter. Yet the frame itself still sat before him, and he could see a path toward replacing the compromised section with a sound repair.
He had enough training to perform serious fabrication under normal conditions, but the pressure of the evening made him distrust his own confidence. Ray had taught him the difference between a weld that looked good and a repair that could be defended with measurements and proper inspection. He had practiced on frame fixtures, watched professional builders work, and ruined enough scrap joints to learn how easily appearances deceived. No part of him wanted to trust the life of a rider to a beautiful bead of metal laid down in panic. He called Martin and asked, without disguising his fear, whether the older man could come.
Martin lived too far away to reach the shop before sundown, but he was already preparing to leave. He said he could get there late that night and inspect the work, and he offered to review photographs during the process. Caleb thanked him, hung up, and stood for a moment beneath the overhead fan, which was no longer turning. The electricity had flickered and the old motor had tripped its breaker again. Even the building seemed determined to contribute to the disaster.