"Three problems in 40 seconds?"
"Dale Prescott couldn't find one in 30 minutes, and you, you worthless little car wash kid, figured out three?"
"Dale was looking with his eyes. I listened."
"You listened?"
Garrett grabbed Owen by the back of the neck and turned him to face the crowd.
"He listened, everyone. Standing ovation for the engine whisperer."
"Somebody get this freak a Grammy and a sandwich. Looks like he hasn't eaten in a week."
The parking lot erupted. People screaming with laughter.
Vince mimicked Owen's pose, palms on an invisible engine, eyes closed, mouth open, and the crowd lost it. Someone started chanting,
"Crawl! Crawl!"
"Crawl!"
But one person didn't laugh. She was standing at the back of the crowd, gray hair pulled into a tight bun, reading glasses hanging from a chain around her neck, a plain navy windbreaker over a white polo shirt.
She looked like someone's grandmother at a Sunday market. Eleanor Graves, 68 years old, retired chief engineer at Harley-Davidson's powertrain division in Milwaukee.
31 years designing, testing, and certifying every engine that left the factory floor. She held four patents on valve train geometry.
She'd written the diagnostic manual that every Harley dealer in America kept on their shelf. She was in Detroit visiting her daughter.
Took a wrong turn on Michigan Avenue, saw the crowd and the row of Harleys, and pulled over out of curiosity. Now she was watching Owen Fletcher with an expression that nobody in that parking lot would have recognized.
Because none of them had ever seen what Eleanor Graves looked like when she spotted genuine talent. She didn't say a word.
She just moved closer. Owen knelt back down, wrench in hand.
He glanced at the timer on the kid's phone. 1 minute and 12 seconds gone.
3 minutes and 48 seconds left.
"I'm going to fix all three,"
Owen said,
"in order. Timing chain first, then carburetor, then electrical ground."
Garrett marched over, grabbed a fistful of Owen's shirt, and yanked him up off his knees.
"You listen to me, you little piece of filth. You break one bolt, one wire, one scratch on that chrome, and five minutes won't matter because I will personally make sure you never hold a wrench again."
"You understand me? You damage that bike, and you will regret it."
Owen held his stare steady.
"I understand."
Garrett shoved him back down. Owen's knees hit the asphalt hard.
He didn't make a sound.
"Clock's ticking, boy. Crawl position is waiting."
Vince cracked his knuckles behind Owen. Two other bikers moved closer, flanking him on both sides.
Arms crossed, shadows falling over the engine. Not helping.
Hovering. Waiting for the moment they'd get to drag this kid across the parking lot on his hands and knees.
The crowd pressed in tighter. Phones everywhere.
60 screens glowing in the evening heat. Livestream viewers climbing.
200, 500, 1,000. Comments flooding in.