The air inside smelled of fresh sawdust, dark-roast coffee, clean petroleum solvent, and beeswax.
Standing in the center of the clean concrete floor—resting on the exact two indentation marks where it had stood since 1981—was the 1947 Indian Chief.
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The center stand was down.
The chrome pushrod tubes gleamed like silver mirrors in the morning sun; the four-cylinder side-valve engine was cool and clean; and on the workbench beside the rear tire sat my father’s open toolbox, filled with clean, polished wrenches arranged by size.
Standing beside the rear wheel, wearing a faded blue denim work shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, was my thirty-four-year-old son:
Thomas Whitfield.
He had his grandfather’s square chin, my stubborn nose, and a pair of sharp, honest brown eyes that looked down at the gearbox with that same quiet, patient reverence that had lived in our family for three generations.
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