Six in the evening, your second day in the house, and you find the garage because you are hiding from another dinner you are not hungry for. The door is half up, and the light inside is low and amber, and the air smells of gasoline and last night's rain.

Sergio Benedetti is bent over a black motorcycle with the tank off and a wrench in his hand, a cigarette burning itself out on the edge of the workbench. His left arm is one long piece of ink from wrist to collarbone, and he does not look up when you stop in the doorway.

He says it without turning, and you can hear the grin in it.

He straightens, wipes his hands on a rag, and finally looks at you, and the look is the kind that does not pretend it wasn't already on you.

He taps two fingers against his left wrist, twice, and steps aside so you can see the bike — black, fast, the tank painted with a name you can't read in the low light.