At seven-thirty, he sent Martin a final series of photographs and called to confirm he had received them. Martin studied the images while Caleb waited. “You’ve found the damaged area,” he said. “The repair looks orderly in these pictures, but I can’t certify structural integrity from a telephone. Keep it off the road until somebody checks it properly.” Caleb agreed. He had expected that answer, and it strengthened his resolve even though he could almost hear Grip’s anger gathering in the distance.
Then he began reassembling the bike. He lifted components back onto their mounts and traced the route of the electrical harness with deliberate care, keeping it away from the damaged internal path. He cleaned mating surfaces, checked clearances, and worked through his tags in reverse order. Nothing happened with the effortless speed of a movie montage. Fasteners resisted, parts had to be repositioned, and a fitting that had behaved perfectly on disassembly refused to line up now. Each delay made Caleb glance at the clock with a new kind of dread.
At 7:45, he was still working. The engine was mounted and the chassis stood properly on the lift, but the tank was not secured and the fuel system remained disconnected. Several protective covers lay on blankets, their screws aligned beside them. His forearms burned from holding heavy pieces in awkward positions. When he tried to drink water, the bottle slipped in his oily hand and rolled beneath the cabinet, and he was too exhausted to retrieve it.
He heard a motorcycle somewhere down the road and froze, but it passed without turning into the industrial park. His breath came back in a rush. He told himself that Grip might be late, that a group preparing to cross the desert might be delayed by anything from traffic to a mechanical problem of its own. Then he remembered the precision with which Grip had announced his deadline. The man did not seem like someone who would be late to collect what he considered his.
At 7:58, Caleb’s phone buzzed with a text from Martin: Twenty minutes out. He stared at the message, knowing twenty minutes could be the difference between evidence and disaster. He replied with a picture of the current state of the motorcycle and one line: Owner on his way. Martin answered almost immediately: Make him look at the sleeve. Do not let him ride without inspection.
The sun sank beyond the low rooftops, leaving a red line at the western edge of the valley. Caleb picked up the gas tank, set it against the frame, and discovered that one of the mounting spacers was still on the workbench. He wanted to throw the tank across the room. Instead he set it down carefully, found the spacer, and tried again. His uncle’s voice seemed to come from everywhere at once: The clock doesn’t have to ride the bike home. The rider does.