Way heavier than anything on the Cavalier. Henry tried to work the rubber free and his hand slipped. He repositioned, tried again. Gravel bit into his knees.
Rain came sideways now, stinging his face, blurring his vision. The old man stood a few feet away, arms crossed, watching. He didn't offer to help, didn't crouch down, didn't even lean forward. It wasn't cruelty.
Henry didn't know it, but the old man's left shoulder hadn't rotated past 45° in years. And underneath that leather vest, a heart his doctors had been warning him about for months. He physically could not help. But Earl Dawson would rather stand in the rain and watch a teenager struggle than admit weakness to a stranger.
So he tested Henry the only way he knew how, with silence. 5 minutes. 10. Henry's hands were raw, his fingertips numb.
The patch slipped the first time. He peeled it away, cleaned the surface, reapplied. It didn't hold. He exhaled long and slow, started over.
Third attempt, steadier, more patient. He pressed the patch down with both thumbs and held it for a full minute. Rain hammered his back. His hoodie was soaked through.
His knees were muddy and raw. He didn't complain, didn't look up for sympathy, he just worked. Something shifted in the old man's expression, like a locked door cracking open half an inch. "You're going to tear up your knees," the old man said.
Henry didn't look up. "Already messed them up falling off my bike when I was twelve. These are the backup knees." The old man's mouth twitched. The ghost of a reaction from a man who didn't give reactions easily.
The patch held on the third try, but barely. Henry stood up and looked at the repair honestly. This wasn't going to survive 30 miles to Cooperton, but there was a place closer. Grady's Tire Barn, 4 miles up Route 12.
Small shop. Henry called. A guy named Grady answered on the fourth ring. "You got a tube that'll fit a '72 Shovelhead rear?" Pause.
"Yeah. Ten bucks, cash only." Henry's hand tightened on the phone. $10. He knew exactly what was in his wallet. One bill.
The ten-dollar bill he had received as change from the pharmacy an hour ago. The money that was supposed to go back in the shoebox. The money that stood between his grandmother making it through the week and not. He looked at the old man.
The old man's face gave nothing. Rain ran down the creases beside his eyes. He wasn't asking for anything. He just stood there the way a mountain stands.
Henry looked at the sky. Darker by the minute. No headlights in either direction. If he left now, this man could be out here until midnight.
He reached into his wallet. One ten-dollar bill. Alexander Hamilton staring up at him through cracked plastic. He looked at it for 2 seconds.
2 seconds where everything flashed. Insulin. Groceries. Friday.
Then he got in the Cavalier and drove to Grady's. He bought the tube. Drove back. Knelt in the mud again.
Installed it properly this time. Careful. Precise. The way the repair manual taught him.