By Saturday morning, Lawson Customs looked nothing like the quiet workshop where I had started working alone.
The front windows had been replaced, the damaged motorcycles had been repaired and the walls had been cleaned until the place looked almost new again. More importantly, the workshop was filled with people.
I stood beside the motorcycle we had restored for the children's hospital fundraiser while Mia checked the final paperwork.
"You sure you're ready to let this one go?" She asked and I looked at the bike and smiled.
"Not really." I said and Mia laughed.
"Then why are you doing it?" She asked.
"Because Uncle Will would've wanted me to." I said.
The motorcycle had started as an old machine that barely deserved to be called functional, but weeks of work had transformed it into
