“Then why do it?”
“Because the motorcycle was never mine.”
Walter looked at his hands.
“I've spent nearly forty years protecting something that was supposed to be passed on.”
He looked toward Rick.
“If I die with it in my garage, then my mistake becomes permanent.”
Rick said nothing.
Walter continued.
“I don't expect Emily to forgive me.”
“What do you expect?”
“To return what belongs to her family.”
“And if Noah doesn't want it?”
“Then I'll bring it home.”
Walter smiled sadly.
“But at least, for once, I’ll have offered instead of decided for everyone else.”
On the sixth day, they found the problem that nearly ended everything.
The transmission had a damaged gear.
Not worn.
Broken.
Rick stared at the piece beneath the bright bench light.
“Well,” Tyler said, “that's bad.”
“How bad?” Walter asked.
Rick exhaled.
“Replacement isn't easy.”
“Can we find one?”
“For this exact setup? Maybe.”
They searched.
Dealers.
Collectors.
Salvage yards.
Online forums.
Nothing close enough arrived within their deadline.
One collector had the correct part but wanted nine hundred dollars.
Walter stared at the price.
“I don't have it.”
“I know,” Rick said.
“Could we machine one?”
Tyler shook his head.
“Not safely in the time we've got.”
Walter picked up the broken gear.
He turned it slowly in his hands.
Then he smiled.
“What?” Rick asked.
“I've seen this before.”
“When?”
“1972.”
Rick frowned.
Walter pointed at the damaged teeth.
“The original design had a weakness here. Under load, the edge cracks.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Daniel broke one.”
Tyler stepped closer.
“What did you do?”
“We couldn't afford a replacement.”
Walter walked to a sheet of paper and drew a rough diagram.
“We adapted a gear from another transmission.”
Rick stared at the drawing.
“You remember the measurements?”
“No.”
“Then that doesn't help much.”
Walter tapped his temple.
“I remember where I wrote them.”
The next morning Walter returned carrying a metal toolbox.
It was ancient.
The red paint had almost completely disappeared.
Inside were notebooks.
Dozens of them.
He opened one dated 1972.
On page forty-three was a hand-drawn diagram.
Measurements.
Angles.
Material specifications.
Everything.
Tyler stared.
“You kept this for fifty-four years?”
Walter shrugged.
“My wife called me a hoarder.”
Rick studied the drawing.
“This might actually work.”
“Might?”
Walter smiled.
“That's more than we had yesterday.”
For the next five hours, Walter and Tyler worked together.
The younger mechanic operated the modern equipment.
Walter guided the dimensions.
At first Tyler questioned everything.
Then less.
Then not at all.
Finally, he held the modified gear beneath the light.
“Looks right.”
Walter examined it.
“Measure it.”
“I already did.”
“Measure it again.”
Tyler smiled.
“You don't trust me?”
“I don't trust anyone holding a part that can throw me off a motorcycle at sixty miles an hour.”
Tyler measured again.
Perfect.
He handed it to Walter.
“Coffee?”
Walter looked confused.
“You said when it ran.”
Tyler grinned.
“I’m making a down payment.”
Over the following week, Walter became part of Apex.
Customers assumed he worked there.
He swept floors when he became too tired to bend over engines.
He organized old bolts.
He made coffee badly.
And, occasionally, he solved problems.
One afternoon a customer brought in a motorcycle that had been stalling unpredictably.
Tyler had spent two hours checking the fuel system.
Rick suspected ignition.
Walter listened while the engine ran.
“Vacuum leak,” he said.
Tyler shook his head.
“Already checked.”
“Check the intake seal on the rear cylinder.”
“I sprayed it.”
“Check it when the engine is hot.”
Tyler did.
There it was.
A tiny leak appearing only after expansion.
Tyler stared at Walter.
“How did you know?”
“Sound.”
“What sound?”
Walter smiled.
“The one it was making.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“It will be after another thirty years.”
Tyler laughed.
Something between them had changed.
The young mechanic no longer saw a seventy-five-year-old man who had brought junk into the shop.
He saw someone who knew things no computer could immediately teach.
Walter, in return, began respecting Tyler.
The young man was impatient, but talented.
He understood electronic systems Walter found bewildering.
He could diagnose sensor faults using equipment Walter had never seen.
One evening they worked side by side.
“Why'd you laugh at me?” Walter asked.
Tyler froze.
“When you first came in.”
Tyler looked embarrassed.
“I don't know.”
“Yes, you do.”
Tyler sighed.
“I thought you were wasting our time.”
“Because I was old?”
“Partly.”
Walter nodded.
“At twenty-six, seventy-five looks like a different species.”
Tyler smiled.
“Pretty much.”
“Know what's funny?”
“What?”
“At seventy-five, twenty-six feels like last Thursday.”
Tyler laughed.
Then Walter became serious.
“You think life changes slowly. It doesn't. It disappears quickly.”
Tyler looked at him.
Walter pointed toward the motorcycle.
“One day you're twenty-three and riding with your brother. Then you blink, and you're rebuilding his motorcycle for a grandson you've never met.”
For once, Tyler had nothing to say.
Eleven days remained.
The engine went back together.
Transmission installed.
New wiring.
Cleaned fuel system.
Replacement cables.
Fresh oil.
Battery connected.
Rick rolled the motorcycle outside.
Nearly the entire shop gathered around.
Walter stood beside it.
“Your moment,” Rick said.
Walter looked nervous.
“Maybe you should.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because it's your bike.”
Walter shook his head.
“Not anymore.”
“Until October seventeenth, it is.”
Rick handed him the key.
Walter inserted it.
His hand trembled.
For a moment he was not seventy-five.
He was twenty-three again.
Daniel was beside him.
Summer sunlight.
Gasoline.
Laughter.
A road disappearing into the distance.
Walter turned the key.
Nothing exploded.
That was encouraging.
He tried the starter.
The engine turned.