Monday mornings rarely stayed quiet for long. By eight o'clock, Lawson Customs was already humming with activity. Ben had two motorcycles on lifts, Mia was juggling phone calls while updating the appointment calendar and I was halfway through replacing a clutch assembly on a touring bike that had somehow survived two hundred thousand miles without falling apart.
"I've decided this motorcycle deserves a medal." I muttered while loosening another stubborn bolt and Ben looked over from the next service bay.
"I thought you were going to say retirement." He said.
"That too, but medals are cheaper." I said and he laughed and returned to work.
The garage had settled back into its familiar rhythm after the attempted kidnapping, although there were small reminders that life wasn't entirely norm
