He opened it and laid the tools out on the asphalt in a neat row. Half-inch Craftsman wrench, quarter-inch socket set, flathead screwdriver, Phillips, a small flashlight with electrical tape around the handle.
That was it. No scanner, no laptop, no voltage meter.
Garrett looked at the tools and burst out laughing.
"Are you kidding me? That's what you brought?"
"My kids' toy set has more in it than that."
His crew roared. One of them kicked a socket wrench across the pavement.
"Oops. Hope you didn't need that one, rat."
Owen picked it up, wiped it on his shirt, put it back in line. A biker named Vince, 6'4, 260, skull tattoo crawling up his neck, stepped forward and stood directly over Owen, blocking the light.
He leaned down and whispered,
"You've got 4 minutes and 30 seconds. Better start crawling now."
"Save yourself the embarrassment."
Owen didn't look up. He knelt beside Black Fury, placed both palms flat on the engine block, and closed his eyes.
The crowd went quiet. Not out of respect, out of confusion.
"He's praying,"
someone yelled.
"The kid's actually praying to the engine."
"Somebody pull this clown off before he drools on the chrome."
A beer can sailed through the air and bounced off the ground next to Owen's knee. He didn't flinch.
Garrett cupped his hands around his mouth.
"Yo, circus boy, clock's running. You here to fix a bike or take a nap?"
Owen didn't hear any of them. His palms pressed against the cooling fins, his fingers spread across the cylinder heads.
He felt the metal the way his father taught him not with his hands but through them. Then he leaned in closer.
Pressed his ear against the rocker cover. Tapped the engine block three times with his knuckle.
Light. Precise.
Like a doctor checking a heartbeat. Garrett's grin faded just slightly.
He'd never seen anyone touch a bike like that. 40 seconds in and he's making love to my engine, Garrett said.
Somebody get this pervert off my Harley. Owen opened his eyes.
Pulled the flashlight from the toolbox. Aimed it at the primary chain cover.
Then moved it to the carburetor bowl. Then to the ground wire junction at the frame bolt.
Three spots. Three seconds each.
He stood up.
"Three problems,"
Owen said. Quiet.
Calm. Like he was reading a grocery list.
"Not one. Three."
"That's why nobody could fix it. They each found one thing, assumed that was everything, and gave up."
Garrett's nostrils flared.