This bike had belonged to a founding member of their local chapter, a man who had died in 1984. The motorcycle had been stored ever since, not as scrap, but as memory.
“And you want her running,” Walt finished.
The biker didn’t blink.
“Yes.”
Walt inhaled slowly.
“I won’t lie to you. Odds aren’t good.”
Silence settled over the shop.
Then, from near the back workbench, a voice broke through.
“I’ll bring it back.”
Everyone turned.