"Give me five minutes."
The laughter stopped.
Bear stared at me.
"What?"
"Five minutes."
"You think you can fix what three riders and a tow operator couldn't?"
"I think I can examine it."
"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 dead motorcycle.
"That's desperation."
Something changed in the air.
The word seemed to reach Bear in a way my other answers hadn't.
For a long moment, he studied my face.
Then he stepped aside.
"Five minutes."
I crouched beside the engine.
The motorcycle was still hot. Heat rose from the metal in shimmering waves, and the smell of fuel clung to the air.
I set the wrench on the pavement.
First rule: don't touch anything until you understand what you're looking at.
I leaned closer and listened.
There was no sound from the engine now, of course, but the way the motorcycle had stopped still mattered. I replayed the moment in my mind: the sudden cough, the brief shudder, the immediate silence.
Not a slow failure.
Something had changed quickly.
I checked the fuel petcock, followed the visible section of the fuel line, and inspected the battery connections. They were secure. The exposed wiring looked intact. I removed a small side cover and examined the ignition connections.
Nothing obvious.
"Four minutes," the shaved-head biker announced.
"Shut up, Deke," someone said.
I followed the fuel line beneath the tank.
The custom work was beautiful. Whoever had built the motorcycle had spent hours shaping metal, polishing welds, and aligning every visible component.
But beautiful work could hide ugly mistakes.
I brushed my fingers against the chrome mounting bracket.
Fresh tool marks.
The same ones I'd noticed through the window.
I traced the bracket with my fingertips, trying to find the point where it passed nearest to the fuel line.
My hand disappeared into the narrow space beneath the tank.
Then my knuckle touched metal.
I jerked back.
"Hot," I muttered.
Deke chuckled.
"Three minutes."
I ignored him and reached in from the opposite side.
This time, I felt it.
The fuel hose had been compressed beneath the mounting bracket.
Not completely closed.
Just enough to restrict the flow.
I angled my head and examined the gap.
The bracket sat too close to the hose. Heat and vibration could have shifted it farther into place, especially if a bolt had loosened slightly. At cruising speed, the engine might have received enough fuel to keep running. But when the rider slowed, the fuel demand changed, and the restricted line could have starved the engine.
It was not the only possible explanation.
But it was the first one that matched what I had seen.
"Flashlight," I said.
Nobody moved.
I looked up.
"Please. I need a flashlight."
Bear handed me one.
I angled the beam into the narrow opening.
There it was.
The flattened hose.
I pointed.
"Fuel line."
Bear crouched beside me.
"What?"
"It's pinched under the tank bracket."
He shined the flashlight from another angle.
"I don't see it."
"You can't from there. Move the light a little to the left."
He did.
His expression changed.
"Well, I'll be damned."
"Can you fix it?" he asked.
I studied the bolt holding the bracket in place.
It was positioned at an awkward angle, and the space around it was too narrow for the wrench I had brought from the store.
"Maybe."
"Two minutes," Deke said.
I reached for the wrench.
It didn't fit.
I adjusted it and tried again.
The jaws slipped.
Metal scraped across my knuckles, opening a thin line of blood.
I sucked air through my teeth.
Bear noticed.
"Stop."
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding."
"It's a scratch."
I changed the angle and tried again.
The wrench slipped a second time.
Deke stopped smiling.
"Kid, you need a smaller tool."
"I know."
"Then get one."
"I don't have one."
Bear looked toward the convenience store.
"Go get what you need."
I shook my head.
"The five minutes are almost gone."
"Forget the time."
I stared at him.
For a moment, I almost accepted the offer.
Then I thought of the clock.
I thought of the rent.
And I shoved my left hand beneath the engine.
It was a bad decision.
The exhaust was scorching, and the space was so narrow that my forearm brushed against the metal.
Pain flashed across my skin.
I jerked away, biting down on a curse.
Several bikers stepped forward.
"Careful."
"Back up."
"Give him some room."
Bear caught my shoulder.
"That's enough."
I pulled away.
"I'm fine."
"You're going to burn your arm."
"I said I'm fine."
He reached for me again.
Something inside me broke.
Weeks of hospital corridors, unpaid bills, and sleepless nights seemed to rise into my throat all at once.
I spun around.
"Don't touch me!"
The parking lot went silent.
Even Deke stopped smiling.
My eyes burned, and I hated myself for it.
"I need this," I said.
Bear's expression softened.
"What?"
I swallowed.
"She needs this."
"Who?"
I turned back to the motorcycle because looking at him was suddenly impossible.
"My mother."
Nobody spoke.
"She's sick," I continued. "We're getting evicted on Monday. I don't have time to fail at this."
The words sounded pathetic.
I knew they did.
But they were true.
Deke looked away.
Bear slowly released my shoulder.
"How much time do you need?"
I stared at the bracket.
"Two minutes."
He glanced at Deke.
"Nobody says another word."
Deke nodded.
I reached beneath the engine again.
The exhaust pressed against my forearm, and pain burned along the skin. I had to approach the bolt from below, where the wrench could catch its edge without slipping.
I wedged the tool into the narrow opening.
Nothing.
I adjusted my grip.
Pushed.
Still nothing.
My fingers began to shake.
For a second, I thought about giving up.
Then I remembered being seven years old, sitting at the kitchen table with a broken radio in front of me. I had spent three hours trying to repair it, and when nothing worked, I had thrown the screwdriver across the room.
My mother had picked it up.
She hadn't scolded me.
She had placed it back in my hand.
"You know what stubborn things hate?" she'd asked.
"What?"
"People more stubborn than they are."
I had laughed through my tears.
Now, crouched beneath a motorcycle that might save my home, I almost laughed again.
Instead, I gritted my teeth and pushed.
The wrench shifted.
The bolt groaned.
I changed my angle and pushed harder.
A sharp crack rang beneath the tank.
The bolt moved.
Every biker stepped forward.
I twisted again.
The bracket loosened.
I carefully moved it away from the fuel line, making sure the hose was no longer compressed.
The rubber expanded back into its proper shape.
I checked the routing twice, then pressed my fingers against the line to make sure it had enough clearance.
"There," I whispered.
Before I could inspect anything else, Bear grabbed the back of my shirt and hauled me away from the engine.
I landed on the pavement.
My wrench clattered beside me.
For a moment, nobody spoke.