She brought it out into the sunlight and showed her grandfather.
He took it in both hands and turned it to the light. He looked at the dots for a long time, and Josie watched the station come in through the static, the way it sometimes still did, and saw his face rearrange itself.
"Four," he said.
"One for your father. One for your mother. One for you," Josie said. "And one for me. So I always know my own work. Even after it leaves."
Aitona looked up at her. His eyes were wet and very clear.
"Josefina," he said. "You've got sun on your nose."
Out on the gravel lot, a boy of about nine was pushing a dusty little red Honda minibike up from the highway, sweating, red-faced, stopping every few yards to rest. He got as far as the edge of the concrete and stopped there, staring at the big gray-bearded man standing in the bay doorway with his arms crossed over his chest, and Josie saw the boy decide to turn around.
Boone didn't move. He only tilted his head, very slightly, toward Josie.
She set the carburetor back on its rag. She wiped her hands on her jeans and walked out into the sun.
"Hey," she said. "What's it doing?"
The boy looked at her, then at Boone, then back at her. "It just stopped," he said. "Like somebody turned it off. I think it's broke for good."
Josie crouched down beside the minibike. She could feel the heat coming off its little engine. Behind her, she heard her grandfather say something to Boone in a low, pleased voice, and she heard Boone laugh, the rusty real one that hardly anybody ever got to hear.
"Probably not for good," she said. "Alright, kid. Show me."