Eli looked toward the open doorway.
“Yesterday.”
Hank turned toward Red.
“Get him something.”
Red looked surprised.
“What?”
“Food.”
Red set down the screwdriver he had been holding.
“Fine.”
Eli immediately shook his head.
“I didn’t come here for food.”
Hank faced him again.
“Didn’t ask why you came.
I asked whether you’d eaten.”
“I can work first.”
“No.”
The firmness in Hank’s voice made the boy stiffen.
Hank noticed and softened his expression.
“Nobody works on an empty stomach in my garage.”
Eli looked at the floor.
“Okay.”
Red disappeared through the side door leading to the small office, muttering something about how Iron Horse was becoming a restaurant.
Cal returned to the Sportster but made no attempt to resume working.
Hank studied the boy’s oversized boots.
“How’d you get here?”
“Walked.”
“From where?”
“Town.”
“That’s six miles.”
“I know.”
Hank looked at the backpack again.
Its fabric had been repaired in two places with black thread, and a small brass key hung from one zipper.
“Where did you sleep last night?”
Eli’s eyes rose sharply.
“I can fix the Harley.”
“I heard you.”
“Then can I show you?”
Hank folded the shop towel.
“Kid, there are two different conversations happening here.
One is about an old motorcycle.
The other is about a thirteen-year-old standing in my shop asking for somewhere to sleep.”
Eli’s expression changed.
For the first time, he looked frightened.
“Please don’t call anybody.”
Hank said nothing immediately.
Eli stepped forward.
“I haven’t stolen anything.
I didn’t break into anywhere.
I just need one night.”
Cal slowly turned toward him.
“Nobody said you stole anything.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you afraid?”
Eli looked at Hank.
“Because if you call somebody, they’ll take me somewhere else.”
Hank pulled an old rolling stool from beneath the workbench and placed it near the office door.
“Sit down.”
Eli hesitated.
“Am I in trouble?”
“Not with me.”
The boy sat, keeping his backpack between his knees.
A minute later, Red returned with a turkey sandwich, an apple, and a bottle of water.
He placed everything on the workbench beside Eli without saying anything.
Eli stared at the sandwich.
Then he looked at the three men.
“How much?”
Red frowned.
“For what?”
“The food.”
Red’s expression lost some of its hardness.
“Just eat it.”
Eli unwrapped the sandwich carefully, as though he was afraid of damaging something valuable.
He took one bite, then another, and quickly turned his face away.
Hank pretended not to notice the tears gathering in the child’s eyes.
He had spent thirty-one years repairing motorcycles, dealing with angry customers, late payments, broken engines, and men who thought shouting could make steel cooperate.
Yet he suddenly found himself uncertain what to do with a hungry boy who seemed to believe every kindness required repayment.
Hank pulled another stool closer.
“Tell me about your mother.”
Eli stopped chewing.
“She’s not dead.”
Hank had not asked whether she was.
“All right.”
“She’s in the hospital.”
“What happened?”
“She got sick.”
“How sick?”
Eli stared at his sandwich.
“Bad enough.”
Hank waited.
Eventually, Eli continued.
“She had an operation.
Something went wrong afterward, and they had to keep her longer.”
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“Who’s looking after you?”
The boy’s silence answered before his words did.
“Mrs.
Bell was.”
“Was?”
“She lives next door.
She helped until she fell and had to go stay with her daughter.”
Hank exhaled slowly.
“How long have you been alone?”
Eli’s fingers tightened around the sandwich wrapper.
“Not that long.”
“Eli.”
“Two nights.”
Cal closed his eyes briefly.
Red turned away and stared toward the open garage door.
Hank kept his voice even.
“Does your mother know?”
Eli shook his head.
“She thinks I’m still with Mrs.
Bell.”
“Why didn’t you tell her?”
“Because she already worries about everything.”
“She needs to know you’re safe.”
“I know.”
“Does the hospital have your phone number?”
“My phone stopped working.”
“Battery?”
Eli shook his head.
“Service got shut off.”
Hank leaned back on the stool.
He understood more now.
He also understood that the boy was not going to respond well to anyone grabbing a telephone and making decisions over his head.
“Finish eating,” he said.
“Then we’ll figure out what needs to happen.”
Eli looked up.
“Together?”
Hank paused.
“Yeah, kid.
Together.”
For the first time since he had entered the garage, Eli’s shoulders relaxed slightly.
But when his eyes moved toward the back of the shop, Hank saw that the motorcycle had not left his mind.
It was still the only thing he believed he had to offer.
The old Harley stood beneath a gray cover in the rear bay, surrounded by cardboard boxes, spare wheels, and equipment that hadn’t been moved in years.
A faded strip of masking tape clung to the headlight housing, with the date October 2006 written across it.
Hank removed the cover himself.
Underneath sat a 1991 Harley-Davidson Heritage Softail, its dark red paint dulled by dust, its chrome spotted with corrosion, and its leather seat cracked along the edges.
The machine still possessed the heavy, deliberate shape of a motorcycle built to cover long distances, but twenty years of standing still had made it appear almost abandoned.
Eli approached carefully.
He did not touch anything.
“She’s beautiful,” he whispered.
Red, standing behind him, gave a short laugh.
“She’s a hundred expensive problems wrapped around a set of wheels.”
Eli shook his head.
“She looks complete.”
“Looking complete and running are two different things.”
“I know.”
Hank watched the boy examine the engine, exhaust, fuel tank, and wiring without laying a finger on them.
“You’re not going to ask what happened?”
Eli glanced at him.
“What happened?”
“Quit on the road twenty years ago.
Wouldn’t start afterward.”
“Did the engine seize?”
“No.”
“Did it make any noise when it stopped?”
Hank seemed surprised by the question.
“It coughed a couple of times, then went quiet.”
“Was it hot?”
“We’d been riding most of the afternoon.”