He had spent seven years being told to stay small, stay quiet, stay invisible. But the engine in that garage was screaming for help in a language only he could read. He had a choice. He could pour the coffee and disappear the way the world kept telling him to, or he could finish his father's sentence out loud in front of everyone.
He already knew which one Samuel would have chosen.
For a long moment, nobody moved. A 19-year-old in a greased shirt stood against forty experts, holding nothing but a dead man's notebook and the certainty in his own chest.
Then an old voice cut through the garage:
"Let the boy speak."
The crowd turned. An elderly man stepped forward from the doorway, leaning on a cane, dressed in a plain gray suit. His name was Walter Hayes. Forty years in engine restoration had made him a quiet legend, the man other legends called when they were stuck. Wells had invited him to appraise the GTO for the auction. Nobody expected him to take a side.
"Mr. Hayes," Boyd said quickly, straightening up. "Sir, it's an honor, but this is a household boy interrupting a professional team."
Walter did not look at Boyd. He was looking at the notebook in Theo's hand. "Son," he said gently, "where did you get that?"
Theo's voice was steady. "It was my father's."
"May I?"
Theo hesitated, then held it out. Walter took the worn leather book as if it were made of glass. He turned the soft pages slowly. When he reached the drawing of the bracket, his hand went still. For a moment, the old man could not speak at all.