“I noticed.”
“You’re supposed to have a life.”
“I have one.”
“No.”
Jamal would say.
“You have everybody else’s.”
That sentence always ended the conversation.
Because Elijah did not know how to answer.
At four-fifteen that Thursday afternoon, the storm arrived.
Weather radio warned of severe thunderstorms moving north from the Gulf.
Possible tornado conditions.
Flooded roads.
High winds.
Elijah had almost closed early.
Then he heard the motorcycle.
The sound was wrong.
Any mechanic who loves engines eventually learns that failure has languages.
A bad bearing complains differently from a fuel problem.
Misfire sounds different from valve trouble.
A healthy Panhead has an uneven rhythm people unfamiliar with old Harleys sometimes mistake for rough running.
This was not that.
This engine sounded hurt.
By the time the biker reached the shop, rain had become a wall.
Loretta came through the side door carrying a dish towel.
She stopped when she saw the stranger.
Large white man.
Wet leather.
Tattooed forearms.
Heavy silver rings.
Her shoulders tightened.
Elijah noticed.
The old man noticed too.
He stood carefully.
Removed his soaked cap.
Held it against his chest.
“Ma’am.”
“My name is Hank.”
“I apologize for showing up like this.”
“My motorcycle decided your driveway was where our relationship needed counseling.”
Loretta stared.
Then almost smiled.
“Manners cost nothing.”
She said.
“But tell plenty.”
“Come out of that rain, Mr. Hank.”
Hank nodded.
“Thank you.”
Loretta disappeared toward the kitchen.
Elijah put the motorcycle on the lift.
“What happened?”
Hank explained.
Three days out of Florida.
Bike ran hot near Macon.
Intermittent misfire.
Power falling.
Oil temperature climbing.
He stopped first at the corporate service center north of town.
The employee looked at the 1965 Harley.
Then at Hank.
“We don’t work on antiques.”
Hank asked if anyone could at least inspect it.
The kid laughed.
Suggested a motorcycle museum.
Hank pushed the bike nearly a mile through the rain.
Elijah’s expression hardened.
“You pushed this with that leg?”
Hank looked down.
“Old injury.”
“Feels worse in storms.”
“Can you get to North Carolina tomorrow?”
“That depends on you.”
Elijah pulled the plugs.
Checked compression.
Inspected oil.
Spark.
Fuel.
He worked silently for almost twenty minutes.
The more he found, the worse his expression became.
Hank watched every change.
Finally:
“How bad?”
Elijah wiped his hands.
“I’ll be straight with you.”
“Please.”
“Front head gasket is gone.”
“Ignition coil is failing when it heats.”
“Carb needs a complete cleaning.”
“And I think the cylinder sleeve has a crack.”
Hank’s jaw tightened.
“How long?”
“With correct parts?”
“Yes.”
“If I could get them locally, maybe tomorrow.”
“But nobody around here stocks Panhead parts.”
“Closest vintage supplier I know is probably hours away.”
Hank looked toward the rain.
“Road closures?”
“Already starting.”
Silence.
Elijah asked:
“What’s in Eagle Ridge?”
Hank stared at the bike.
“My brother.”
“Lives there?”
“Buried there.”