On Thursday, Martin returned for a more thorough examination of Red Mercy. The frame was checked under better conditions, the repair records were organized, and a few finishing tasks were completed without the pressure of an approaching sunset. Caleb watched the process with the attention of a student who had just discovered how much there was left to learn. Martin did not spare him corrections. He explained that a successful road test could confirm a symptom had disappeared without revealing every possible weakness in a complicated old chassis.
Grip arrived later that afternoon, alone this time, wearing a plain work shirt beneath his cut. He watched Martin finish the inspection, listened to the recommendations, and paid for the additional labor without being asked twice. When the bike was finally released for cautious road use and later follow-up checks, he rode it around the industrial park at modest speed. The engine’s deep rhythm carried through the open bay, smooth and steady, until he turned back toward the shop and stopped beside Caleb.
“You still think I ought to take the spare on the Nevada run?” Grip asked.
“I think you should do whatever Martin’s final inspection says you can safely do,” Caleb answered.
“You don’t make it easy to be dramatic, do you?”
“Not when somebody’s riding the result.”
Grip laughed. He removed his gloves and offered one hand. Caleb shook it. This time the contact was ordinary and friendly, not a reminder of the difference in their size. “You ever want to work on a bike of mine again,” Grip said, “you’ll get more time and fewer threats.”
“That would be a good start.”
“I owe you an apology for the way I came in here. That fire talk was out of line.”
Caleb looked at him in surprise. He had not expected an apology, and he was not sure what to do with it. “You scared me,” he admitted.
“I know. I was scared, too. That machine was doing something I couldn’t understand, and I took it out on you.” Grip glanced toward the repaired frame. “Doesn’t excuse it.”
“No,” Caleb said. “It doesn’t.”
Grip nodded, as though the answer pleased him more than a quick forgiveness would have. “Good. You keep saying what’s true. People will either respect it or go someplace else.” He pulled on his gloves, settled onto the red saddle, and gave the engine a gentle twist of throttle. Then he rode away at a careful pace, leaving Caleb to watch the motorcycle disappear into ordinary afternoon traffic rather than into the spectacle of hundreds of riders.
The first week after the repair was exhausting in a different way. Customers appeared with machines they insisted had baffled everyone else, perhaps hoping the nineteen-year-old would discover a conspiracy beneath every fuel tank. Caleb learned to smile and ask them to describe the symptoms without promising a miracle. Most problems were ordinary: neglected maintenance, poor adjustments, old seals, and loose connections. Some were expensive and some were simple. All of them required the same habits Ray had taught him years before.