He glanced toward the tank, then back at me. "How old are you?"
Eighteen.
Then use your driver's license to drive home.
A few riders chuckled. I should have left. Instead, I heard my mother coughing inside my head — that thin, rattling breath. I saw the eviction notice. I saw the stack of cash. I raised the wrench.
Give me five minutes.
The laughter stopped.
The leader's eyebrows rose. "What?"
Five minutes.
You think you can fix what three riders and a tow guy couldn't?
I think I can look.
And if you break something?
I won't.
The shaved-head biker barked a laugh. "That's confidence."
No, I said. I looked at the bike. "That's desperation."
Something about the word changed the air. The leader watched me another second, then stepped aside. "Five minutes."
I crouched. The motorcycle was still hot — very hot. Heat rolled off the engine block in waves. I placed the wrench on the pavement. First rule: don't touch anything until you listen. I leaned close. Engines talk in a order, if you let them. First there's what you hear — and this one, cooling, ticked like a stove settling. Then there's what you smell. Then, last, what you touch. Most men reverse it. They grab and twist and force, and the machine, like anything cornered, stops telling them the truth. My mother taught me the order on a toaster, a radio, a lawn mower with a cracked housing, years of broken things on our kitchen table. Listen first. The machine already knows what's wrong with it. Your whole job is to not be too loud to hear it.
I smelled fuel. Not much — and that was information, because a bike that had just ridden in off the highway should have smelled like a refinery. A faint smell meant the fuel wasn't arriving in full, or wasn't arriving at all. It did not smell electrical. Electrical trouble smells like a scorched coin, like pennies on a stove. There was none of that. There was heat, and oil, and the clean mineral smell of a very expensive engine cooling in a parking lot, and under it all the ghost of gasoline that should have been stronger.
I checked the petcock. Checked the line. Checked the ignition wiring. Battery connections solid. I removed a small side cover. Nothing obvious.
Four thirty, the shaved-head biker announced.
Shut up, Deke, someone told him.
I followed the fuel line beneath the tank. The bike had beautiful custom work. Too beautiful. That was often the problem. People spent money making machines look perfect and created new ways for them to fail. My finger brushed a chrome bracket. Fresh. Exactly like I had noticed. I traced beneath it. The line disappeared. My pulse changed.
Flashlight, I said.
Nobody moved. I looked up. "Flashlight."
The leader handed me one. I angled the beam. There. Not enough to see. Enough to suspect. The fuel line had been routed too close to the bracket. I reached deeper. My knuckle touched metal and I jerked back. Hot.
Deke laughed softly. "Three minutes."
I ignored him. I pushed my fingers in from the other side. There. The line was flattened. Not completely. Almost. The bracket had shifted — maybe vibration, maybe heat expansion, maybe bad installation. The engine had been getting enough fuel at cruising speed because pressure kept the line open. But as the bike slowed and shifted at the gas station, the bracket had pinched it almost closed.
I pointed. "Fuel line."
The leader crouched beside me. "What?"
Pinched under the tank bracket.
He shined the flashlight. "I don't see it."
You can't from there.
Can you fix it?
I studied the bolt. Tight angle. Wrong tool. "Maybe."
Two forty.
I reached for the wrench. It didn't fit. I adjusted. Tried again. Slipped. A bright line of pain tore across my knuckles. I sucked air through my teeth.
The leader noticed. "Stop."
I'm fine.
You're bleeding.
I said I'm fine.
I changed angle. The wrench slipped again. "Kid," he warned. I put my left hand beneath the engine. Bad idea. The exhaust was scorching. But I could reach the bolt from there. I wedged the wrench into the narrow opening. Metal touched my forearm. Pain exploded. I jerked. The riders reacted immediately.
Whoa. "Careful." "Back up."
The leader grabbed my shoulder. "That's enough."
I twisted away. "No."
You're going to cook your arm.
I said no.
He pulled harder. Something inside me broke. Weeks of doctors. Weeks of watching Mom disappear into blankets. Weeks of unopened bills. Weeks of pretending I wasn't terrified. I spun around.
Don't touch me!
The parking lot went dead silent. Even Deke stopped smiling. Tears burned behind my eyes. I hated them for coming.
I need this. The leader's grip loosened. I swallowed. "She needs this."
His face changed. "Who?"
I turned back to the bike. "Two minutes," Deke said quietly. The leader shot him a look. Deke stopped talking.
I shoved my arm back into the space. The exhaust pressed against my skin. The pain was immediate and bright. I made a sound I didn't recognize. The leader reached toward me again. I screamed, "Don't!" He froze.
I thought of Mom sitting beside me at age seven while I cried over a broken radio. I had tried to fix it for three hours. Nothing worked. Finally, frustrated, I threw the screwdriver. Mom picked it up. She put it back in my hand. "You know what stubborn things hate?" "What?" "People more stubborn than they are."
I gritted my teeth. The wrench shifted. The bolt groaned. I put everything I had into it. Crack. Every rider stepped forward. The bolt moved. I twisted again. The bracket loosened. I shoved it aside. The fuel line expanded — full shape, open.