And his right hand went out, without his looking, without his seeming to decide anything at all, and his index finger came to rest on the rim of the medal beside the clock.
Selma stood very still on the concrete. She watched his finger lie there on the brass, on the bright worn edge her father had made bright, and she watched him notice it, his own hand, a second after it happened; she saw him look down at it, startled, as if it had moved on its own, and then she saw him understand where it had learned to do that, and from whom, and how many Sundays. He did not take his hand away. He sat with his finger on the medal and his eyes on the orange light, waiting, the way two other men had sat and waited in that seat, and the light burned for fifteen seconds, and went out.
He turned the key. The engine caught on the second turn, rattled, shook, and settled into its knock. He sat and listened to it with his head a little on one side.
"It sounds better than when he had it," he said after a while.
"My father would like to hear you say that."
"He rebuilt it?"
"Two winters. In the evenings. On a stand in the second bay. Herr Bauer taught him." She saw the question on his face and shook her head. "That's another story. It's long."
"I'd like to hear it."
"Maybe." She did not say yes. She found that she was not ready to say yes to anything. "He took pictures of every step. My father. He had one of those cameras with film, and then a digital one, and he took pictures of everything he did to it, every bolt. There are four albums at the shop. Under the counter."
Gene listened to the engine. "You open Saturdays?"