“The touring motorcycle I repaired.”
Her face lost its color.
“What did it look like?”
“Big touring frame.
Custom fairing.
Black tank.”
“Anything painted on it?”
“A silver stripe.”
Lena dropped into a chair.
Noah watched her.
“You recognize it.”
“No.”
“You do.”
Lena shook her head.
“I don’t want you going back there.”
“Mom—”
“I mean that.”
“Ray paid me five thousand dollars because I fixed that motorcycle.”
“And that is exactly where this ends.”
Noah thought about the engine roaring to life.
Ray staring at the embroidered initials.
Ray asking where the shirt had come from.
Something did not fit.
And once Noah Briggs knew something was wrong inside a machine, he could not leave it alone until he understood why.
He returned the next morning.
Ray was already at the shop.
The black touring motorcycle rested on a lift in the rear.
Its fuel tank had been removed.
Mack was inspecting the section of harness Noah had repaired.
When Noah entered, both men looked toward him.
Ray glanced at the envelope Noah was holding.
“Here to give my money back?”
“My mother told me to.”
“And?”
“I’m not going to.”
Something close to amusement passed over Ray’s face.
“Good.”
Noah placed the envelope on the bench anyway.
“I want answers first.”
Ray wiped his hands.
“What did she tell you?”
“That my grandfather was your business partner.”
Ray nodded.
“That my father tested motorcycles here.”
Ray’s expression gave away nothing.
“And that he died on one.”
Mack quietly walked away.
Noah noticed.
“Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“Did you approve the road test?”
Ray waited too long before answering.
“Yes.”
Noah’s hands closed into fists.
“And Grandpa left afterward.”
“Yes.”
“Why did he never talk about you?”
Ray looked toward the black motorcycle.
“Some memories become too costly to keep paying for.”
Noah hated the sentence.
“That sounds like something people say when they’re trying not to tell the truth.”
Ray glanced at him.
“Probably.”
Noah pointed toward the motorcycle.
“Was my dad killed on a bike like that?”
Ray did not answer.
Noah’s stomach tightened.
“Was he?”
Ray said, “Work here for one week.”
Noah stared.
“What?”
“After school.
Four hours each day.”
“I didn’t ask you for a job.”
“I know.”
“I asked you a question.”
“And I’m telling you what I’m willing to offer.”
Noah laughed without humor.
“You expect me to work for you so you don’t have to answer?”
“No.”
Ray stepped closer.
“If I give you the entire story right now, you’re going to hear whatever your mother’s anger tells you to hear.
Spend a week here and maybe you’ll know enough to ask the questions that actually matter.”
“That’s manipulative.”
“Probably.”
“Do you say probably every time somebody calls you out?”
“Only when they’re right.”
Noah nearly smiled.
Nearly.
Ray nodded toward the five-thousand-dollar envelope.
“That belongs to you no matter what.”
Noah looked over the workshop.
Engines.
Frames.
Machining tools.
Suspension parts.
Fabrication equipment.
Old photographs on the walls.
This place held the part of Elias Briggs’s life that had been deliberately hidden from Noah.
If there were answers, they were probably inside this building.
“One week.”
Ray nodded.
“One week.”
The first three days were awful.
No one trusted him.
Not because he was Elias Briggs’s grandson.
Most of the younger mechanics had never even heard Elias’s name.
They disliked him because he was sixteen years old and had unintentionally embarrassed fifteen experienced professionals in less than five minutes.
Noah received every unpleasant job.
Cleaning dirty components.
Sorting bolts and washers.
Sweeping metal filings.
Draining old fuel tanks.
He did them without complaint.
On Wednesday afternoon, a mechanic named Chase handed him a carburetor with a smirk.
“Customer says it bogs whenever the engine’s under load.
Tell me why.”
Noah turned the part in his hands.
“Can I open it?”
“I thought you listened to machines.”
“It isn’t running.”
“Already making excuses?”
Noah removed the bowl.
Ten minutes later he showed Chase a nearly invisible crack near the emulsion tube.
Chase’s grin disappeared.
On Thursday, Noah spotted a wheel bearing installed backward before a mechanic mounted the wheel on a customer’s motorcycle.
On Friday, he told Mack a newly rebuilt engine sounded too tight in the rear cylinder.
Mack dismissed him.
Twenty minutes later, the engine began overheating.
Mack shut it down, removed his glasses, and stared at Noah.
“Do you enjoy being irritating?”
“No.”
“Then it’s a natural talent.”
That evening Mack bought him dinner from the food truck outside the shop.
It was the first real sign that the men at Calder Motorworks had begun accepting him.
Ray remained harder to understand.
He watched Noah.
Asked him questions.
Corrected him when he made mistakes.
But any time Noah mentioned Daniel or Elias, Ray found another job that needed immediate attention.
On the sixth day, Noah discovered the photograph.
It hung in the oldest part of the office behind several filing cabinets.
He had gone inside searching for a service manual.
Instead, he found an old picture showing three men beside an unfinished motorcycle.
The colors had faded.