I scrub the grease out from under my fingernails with a stiff-bristled brush, letting the hot water flush down the drain until the porcelain runs clear.
It was a hell of a morning down at the shop.
Stitch dumped a late-nineties Custom Vehicle Operations Softail on my lift, a bike with a phantom electrical short that had already driven two other mechanics to near-madness.
Wiring gremlins are the worst kind of work; But after four hours of systematic tearing down, soldering fresh leads, and shrinking clean black insulation over the splices, the engine finally roared to life with a crisp, uninterrupted thud.
The satisfaction of fixing something broken still clings to my skin, even after a half-day in the bay and a long, scorching shower up here in the penthouse.
I step out onto the bat
