Raymond nodded. "I know. I read the reports. Every component tests perfectly in isolation."
He began pacing slowly, thinking out loud: "Something works fine when it's cold, tests fine when you examine it separately, but fails when the entire system runs hot under real conditions over extended time." He stopped pacing. "Something that changes with heat."
The clock showed 58 minutes remaining.
Raymond dropped to the ground and slid under the car. His church clothes scraped against concrete. The white shirt his mother had ironed so carefully was getting dirty; he didn't care. His small body fit easily into spaces where adult mechanics would struggle. This was what Giuseppe had taught him: Your hands are small. That's not a weakness; it's a gift.
Raymond traced the fuel line with his fingertips, inch by inch, following it from the tank toward the engine. His hand stopped at a section near the exhaust manifold.
"Flashlight, please."
Someone handed one down to him. Raymond examined the fuel line section carefully: it looked perfect—no cracks, no visible wear, no obvious damage. It would pass any inspection.
Raymond slid out from under the car. His white shirt was now gray with dust, his khaki pants stained at the knees, but his eyes were bright.
"This section of fuel line is original," he said. "From 1962. 62 years old."
Derek shrugged. "Original components are valuable in vintage cars. We don't replace things that aren't broken."
"It's not broken," Raymond said. "It's tired. There's a difference."
He walked to where Victoria Ashford sat. "Ma'am, may I explain what I believe is happening?"
She nodded, intrigued.
"This fuel line runs within two inches of the exhaust manifold. Every time the engine runs, that section gets hot—very hot. Then the engine stops and it cools down." Raymond held up his hands, demonstrating expansion and contraction. "62 years of heat cycles, thousands and thousands of times. The rubber expands when hot, contracts when cold, over and over."