Chapter 10

He stood up. "Three problems," Owen said: quiet, calm, like he was reading a grocery list. "Not one. Three. That's why nobody could fix it. They each found one thing, assumed that was everything, and gave up."Garrett's nostrils flared. "Three problems in forty seconds? Dale Prescott couldn't find one in thirty minutes, and you—you worthless little car wash monkey, you figured out three?""Dale was looking with his eyes. I listened.""'You listened'?" Garrett grabbed Owen by the back of the neck and turned him to face the crowd. "He listened, everyone! Standing ovation for the engine whisperer! Somebody get this freak a Grammy and a sandwich—looks like he hasn't eaten in a week!"The parking lot erupted, people screaming with laughter. Vince mimicked Owen's pose—palms on an invisible engine, eyes closed, mouth open—and the crowd lost it. Someone started chanting, "Crawl! Crawl! Crawl!"But one person didn't laugh. She was standing at the back of the crowd: gray hair pulled into a tight bun, reading glasses hanging from a chain around her neck, a plain navy windbreaker over a white polo shirt. She looked like someone's grandmother at a Sunday market: Eleanor Graves, sixty-eight years old, retired chief engineer at Harley-Davidson's powertrain division in Milwaukee; thirty-one years designing, testing, and certifying every engine that left the factory floor. She held four patents on valvetrain geometry; she'd written the diagnostic manual that every Harley dealer in America kept on their shelf. She was in Detroit visiting her daughter, took a wrong turn on Michigan Avenue, saw the crowd and the row of Harleys, and pulled over out of curiosity.Now, she was watching Owen Fletcher with an expression that nobody in that parking lot would have recognized, because none of them had ever seen what Eleanor Graves looked like when she spotted genuine talent. She didn't say a word; she just moved closer.Owen knelt back down, wrench in hand. He glanced at the timer on the kid's phone: one minute and twelve seconds gone, three minutes and forty-eight seconds left."I'm going to fix all three," Owen said, "in order: timing chain first, then carburetor, then electrical ground."Garrett marched over, grabbed a fistful of Owen's shirt, and yanked him up off his knees. "You listen to me, you little piece of filth. You break one bolt, one wire, one scratch on that chrome, and five minutes won't matter because I will personally make sure you never hold a wrench again. You understand me? I will snap every finger on your dirty little hands!"

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Hells Angels Bet $5N No One Can Fix Their Bike — Until an 18-Yr-Old Picks Up a Wrench "Give Me 5 Min"