Preston's face reddened. The quiz was supposed to expose Raymond's ignorance; instead, it had showcased his expertise.
"Fine," he snapped. "The clock starts now."
The digital display began counting down: 90 minutes, 89:59, 89:58.
Raymond turned toward the Ferrari, but before he could take a step, the service bay door opened. An old man entered slowly: white hair, wooden cane, clothes that had seen better decades.
Victoria Ashford rose from her chair so quickly it nearly fell over. "Giuseppe Martinelli? From the Scuderia Ferrari factory team?"
Whispers erupted through the crowd. The older technicians recognized the name: a legend, one of the last living mechanics who had worked directly with Enzo Ferrari.
Giuseppe walked to the center of the bay, each step deliberate, each breath earned. He stopped beside Raymond, placed one weathered hand on the boy's shoulder.
"This young man has been my student for five years," Giuseppe said. His voice was soft, but carried to every corner of the room. "I have trained over 100 technicians in my career: factory mechanics, racing engineers, men with university degrees and decades of experience."
He looked directly at Preston Whitmore. "Raymond Nelson is the most gifted diagnostician I have ever taught. If he says he knows what's wrong with this car, then he knows." He squeezed Raymond's shoulder gently. "I am here to witness."
Preston sputtered. "This is highly irregular. This was supposed to be an independent evaluation. Outside interference could compromise the entire process."
Theodore Harrington stood up. "Preston, if one of the most respected Ferrari mechanics in history wants to observe, we can accommodate him." His tone left no room for argument.
Giuseppe walked to the back row, settled into the chair beside Beatrice Nelson, and gave her a small nod. "Your son is ready," he whispered. "Trust what I have taught him."
The clock showed 86 minutes remaining.
Raymond approached the Ferrari, but he didn't grab tools, didn't open diagnostic equipment, didn't rush. He walked around the car slowly: looking, listening, feeling. He placed his palm flat against the fender, crouched to examine the undercarriage, closed his eyes, and breathed.
Derek Sullivan laughed out loud. "What's he doing? Trying to communicate telepathically? Maybe someone should get him a crystal ball."