Cal was checking the ignition components when he found a mismatch between the wiring diagram and a connector that had been fitted to the motorcycle years earlier.
He frowned at the manual.
“That doesn’t look right.”
Eli, seated nearby, leaned forward.
“Can I see?”
Cal showed him the diagram.
The boy looked at the connector, then at his own notebook.
“Could that be from the repair?”
“What repair?”
“The one under the tank.”
Red glanced up.
“We haven’t even taken that harness apart yet.”
Eli nodded.
“But the tape’s the same kind.”
Cal followed his gaze.
The connector had been wrapped with the same aged black tape as the wiring near the frame.
Hank came over.
“What’d you find?”
Cal held up the connector.
“Old replacement.
Not sure whether it’s original to the bike.”
Eli pointed to the harness.
“That one looks like it was changed too.”
Hank examined both locations.
For a moment, an uncomfortable memory surfaced.
He remembered working late one evening in 2006, searching for an intermittent electrical fault while his father stood beside him.
He remembered replacing a connector and wrapping a damaged section of wire.
But he couldn’t remember whether that had happened before the Harley stopped running or afterward.
He picked up the notebook.
There were entries for a battery test, ignition checks, fuel system cleaning, and several unsuccessful starting attempts.
Then the writing stopped.
Hank turned the final page.
There was nothing.
“That’s strange,” he murmured.
Eli looked at him.
“What?”
“My dad always wrote down what we’d done.”
He stared at the blank page.
“Even if we hadn’t finished.”
Cal looked toward the harness.
“Maybe he got sick before he could.”
“Maybe.”
Hank closed the notebook.
But the memory continued bothering him.
For twenty years, he had remembered the Harley as a machine that simply refused to start.
Now he was beginning to wonder how much of that memory had been shaped by everything that happened afterward.
The days developed a rhythm.
Eli attended school, went home with Lucy, spoke to Nora whenever the hospital permitted, and visited the garage only when the adults had arranged it.
He was never treated as an employee, and Hank made it clear that there would be no working around running engines or dangerous equipment.
Still, there was plenty the boy could learn.
He learned how to read a service manual without skipping steps.
He learned that a good mechanic sometimes spent more time testing than replacing parts.
He learned how to clean tools properly, why old tires were unsafe regardless of their tread, and why a motorcycle that started successfully was not automatically fit for the road.
He also learned things that had nothing to do with engines.
Cal liked his coffee with too much sugar.
Red listened to baseball games through a radio that frequently lost reception.
Hank kept spare reading glasses in three different places because he was forever misplacing the pair on his head.
And whenever one of the men had a difficult day, the others usually knew without being told.
On a Thursday afternoon, a customer arrived furious about a delayed repair.
The man stood near the Sportster, raising his voice.
“I’ve been waiting two weeks.”
Hank remained calm.
“We found additional damage.
I explained that when I called.”
“I don’t care what you found.
I need my bike.”
“I’m not sending you onto the highway with unsafe brakes.”
The customer looked toward Eli, who was sitting with his homework at the office table.
“What’s this?
You hiring children now?”
Eli lowered his pencil.
Hank’s expression hardened.
“He’s a visitor.”
The man snorted.
“Looks like a pretty questionable way to run a repair shop.”
Red took a step forward, but Hank raised his hand.
“Your bike will be ready when it’s safe.
If you want to discuss the bill, we’ll do it in the office.”
The customer looked at the three mechanics.
Then he looked away.
“Fine.”
Afterward, Eli approached Hank.
“I’m sorry.”
Hank frowned.
“For what?”
“That man was mad because I was here.”
“No.
That man was mad because he wanted his bike before it was ready.”
Eli glanced toward the office.
“He said you shouldn’t have me here.”
Hank rested his hands on the workbench.
“People say things when they’re frustrated.”
“But what if they think you’re doing something wrong?”
Hank considered his answer.
“Then I make sure I’m doing things right.
That’s why Beth, Lucy, and your mom know you’re here.”
Eli nodded.
Hank continued.
“And if somebody doesn’t like how we look, that’s their problem.
If they have a real concern, we listen.
But we don’t let their opinions decide who deserves respect.”
Eli thought about that.
“Does it happen a lot?”
“People judging us?”
He looked toward the parking lot, where several motorcycles stood beneath the afternoon sun.
“Enough.”
“Because you’re bikers?”
“Sometimes.”
Eli looked at Hank’s heavy boots and worn work shirt.
“But you fix things.”
Hank smiled.
“That’s what we’re trying to do.”
One Friday evening, Eli arrived unusually quiet.
He greeted everyone politely and sat down with his notebook, but he didn’t ask to see the Harley.
Instead, he stared at the same page for nearly ten minutes.
Hank noticed.
“Something wrong?”
Eli shook his head.
“No.”
Hank pulled up a stool.
“You sure?”
The boy stared at the page.
“Mom had another test.”
Hank waited.
“They said her recovery is slower than they expected.”
“I’m sorry.”
Eli nodded.
“She sounded tired.”
“She’s been through a lot.”
“I know.”
The boy turned his pen between his fingers.
“What if she doesn’t get better?”
Hank took a breath.
It would have been easy to promise she would.
He wanted to.
But he remembered his own father’s illness, the doctors who had spoken carefully, and the promises no one could honestly make.
“I don’t know what’s going to happen,” he said.
Eli blinked rapidly.
Hank continued.
“But I know she’s getting care, and I know she wants to come home to you.”
Eli looked toward the old Harley.