That afternoon, David picked up a wrench, and the grease pit became the first place that ever felt like home.
Big Mike’s Custom Cycles sat in a worn industrial neighborhood the city preferred to describe as blighted. Behind the scarred workbenches was a small room with a sofa, spare blankets, canned food, and a cabinet filled with school supplies for young people who had nowhere else to go. David stayed there through high school, working evenings, studying at the parts counter, and learning that damaged machines could often be rebuilt if someone was patient enough to understand what had failed. Mike never formally adopted him, but he paid application fees, attended graduation, and sold a prized motorcycle to help cover David’s first semester of college. David eventually earned
