Thomas and I looked at each other.
A slow, dazzling, unburdened smile broke across my face—a smile that carried forty years of patience, thirty-six years of silence, and the eternal victory of an honest man who had held his ground against the world.
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I walked over to the wooden cabinet on the wall, took the antique brass ignition key from its hook, and laid it in my seven-year-old grandson's palm.
"Turn the switch to the right, Benjamin," I said softly.
Benjamin stood on his tiptoes, his small fingers inserting the brass key into the ignition tumbler on the tank, turning the cylinder until a sharp, mechanical CLICK echoed through the workshop.
The red generator light on the dash ignited in a brilliant, fiery crimson ruby.
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Thomas stepped up to the kickstart lever, swung his weight over the footpeg, engaged the manual choke half an inch, and hauled downward with a single, powerful, practiced stroke of his boot.
