Several technicians chuckled. Raymond opened his eyes, looked directly at Derek.
"I'm listening," he said quietly. "Something you forgot how to do a long time ago."
The laughter died instantly. Raymond turned back to the car. "Please start the engine."
A technician turned the key. The Ferrari's V12 roared to life, 12 cylinders singing in harmony. To most ears in the room, it sounded perfect. Raymond closed his eyes again, head tilted slightly, completely still: 10 seconds passed, 20, 30, then his eyes snapped open.
"There. Did anyone else hear that?"
Everyone looked confused; they had heard nothing unusual.
"Hear what?" Derek challenged. "It sounds perfect."
Raymond shook his head slowly. "No, it sounds almost perfect. There's a difference." He turned to face the clock: 83 minutes remaining. "I'm going to need an analog fuel pressure gauge—the kind from the 1960s, with a needle, not a digital display."
Derek Sullivan crossed his arms. "We have a $50,000 diagnostic computer system, state-of-the-art, and this kid wants antique equipment?"
Raymond didn't look at him. "Your $50,000 computer has been wrong for 18 months. I'll try something different."
Preston waved dismissively at a junior technician. "Find whatever old equipment we have in storage. Let the boy play with his toys."
It took 15 minutes to locate the gauge: dusty, forgotten, buried beneath modern equipment that had failed to solve anything. Raymond connected it to the fuel line with careful hands. His movements were precise, confident—the hands of someone who had done this hundreds of times in a cluttered Oakland garage.
"Start the engine again, please."
The V12 roared to life. Raymond watched the analog needle. It held steady: 4.5 PSI, exactly within specification.