Elijah carried it to the lathe.
Hank watched.
“What are you doing?”
“Building what I can’t buy.”
“You can do that?”
Elijah looked at him.
“Guess we’re finding out.”
At 6:30, lights flickered.
At 7:14, power failed.
The entire shop went black.
Hank laughed once.
“Of course.”
Elijah lit two kerosene lanterns.
Then pulled James’s old battery work light from a cabinet.
Dented aluminum housing.
Scratches across the handle.
Still worked.
Loretta placed another lantern near the lathe.
“You need anything?”
“Prayers.”
“Already working.”
Elijah turned the sleeve by hand as much as possible, using backup power only where necessary.
Slow.
Measure.
Cut.
Measure again.
He worked in thousandths.
Hank watched a nineteen-year-old boy perform precision machine work by yellow lantern light while thunder rolled beyond the doors.
At one point he whispered:
“Jesus.”
Elijah never heard him.
At 8:48, the sleeve fitted.
Not final.
Good enough to proceed.
Next problem.
Ignition coil.
Elijah searched shelves.
Nothing correct.
Then remembered a riding mower he dismantled months earlier.
The old coil had tested strong.
Different mounting.
Different application.
Electrical behavior close enough to adapt temporarily.
Hank raised an eyebrow.
“Lawn mower?”
Elijah looked offended.
“Quality lawn mower.”
Hank laughed for the first time all evening.
At 9:30, Loretta brought stew.
Hank ate two bowls.
Then she sat beside him.
“How old is your grandson?”
He asked.
“Nineteen.”
“How long he been doing that?”
“Since thirteen.”
Hank looked toward Elijah.
“His father teach him?”
“Everything that mattered.”
Loretta’s eyes rested on James’s bench.
“He had hands like that too.”
“Could hear an engine and tell you what was wrong before the hood came up.”
Hank grew very still.
“What was his name?”
“James.”
“James Sanders.”
Hank’s coffee stopped halfway to his mouth.
Loretta did not notice.
Elijah called for a wrench.
She stood.
Hank stared toward the workbench.
Toward the old Iron Horse catalog.
Something moved across his face.
Memory.
He reached into his vest.
Removed a small notebook.
Wrote:
JAMES SANDERS.
Underlined it.
At 11:18, Elijah confronted the gasket.
No replacement.
The failed one could not be reused.
He had a small copper sheet originally intended for a decorative project.
He carried it to the bench.
Scored the shape.
Cut.
Filed.
Annealed.
Adjusted.
Not a factory replacement.
Not something he would recommend as permanent.
But properly prepared, it might carry Hank two hundred miles.
By midnight, Elijah’s shoulders hurt.
By 12:34, reassembly began.
Torque pattern.
Three passes.
Careful.
Fuel system cleaned.
Ignition adapted.
Timing checked.
Lines bled.
Carburetor adjusted.
At 1:47, Elijah stepped back.
Hank stood.
His limp looked worse.