Chapter 5

Garrett looked at Owen's shoes. Looked at his stained shirt. Looked at his skinny arms. Then he laughed—not a real laugh, a laugh designed to humiliate."You hear that, boys? This little piece of garbage thinks he knows what's wrong."The crowd rippled. Someone yelled, "Go home, kid!" Someone else, "Wrong neighborhood, bro!"A biker—thick beard, neck tattoos, arms like concrete pillars—walked up and flicked Owen's ear hard enough to sting. "You lost, little boy? Daycare's down the street."Another one grabbed Owen's backpack and ripped it off his shoulders. Unzipped it. Dumped everything on the asphalt: a crushed sandwich, a water bottle, the library book, Fundamentals of Internal Combustion Engines. The biker picked up the book, read the title out loud in a mocking voice. The crowd howled. He dropped it in a puddle of oil and stomped on it."That's where your education belongs: in the dirt, just like you."Owen bent down, picked up the book, wiped the oil off with his sleeve, and put it back in his bag.Garrett watched all of this with his arms crossed. "You done, or you need another lesson in where you belong?"Owen zipped his bag, stood up straight. Those same quiet eyes: "I can fix it."Garrett moved fast, got right in Owen's face—so close Owen could smell the whiskey, the tobacco, the engine grease baked into his skin."Listen carefully, boy. You see these hands? Scarred knuckles, prison ink. These hands have cracked skulls. You see these brothers?" He swept his arm across fifteen Hells Angels. "They've done worse. And you, you stand here in your ripped shoes and your car wash cologne, and you tell me you can fix my father's bike?"

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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"