Leo came out of the office with Becca. “Are you ready?” he asked Caleb.
“Ready for what?”
“To help us explain the brakes. You promised you’d show people the old axle.”
Caleb glanced at Odessa, who raised an eyebrow. “He did promise,” she said.
They carried the parts toward the crowd together. No one was about to break a speed record. The work still deserved an audience.
Before they began, Becca noticed one of the youngest racers sitting alone on a curb with his cart tipped against his knees. His name was Toby, and his steering rope had frayed during the inspection. He had waited all year for a chance to show his grandfather the little machine. Now he believed he would miss even the reduced showcase.
Leo sat beside him and examined the rope. “This is easy to replace,” he said, “but the new knot needs to be tested.”
“Everybody keeps saying tested,” Toby muttered. “I just want to drive.”
Becca knelt opposite him. “So do I. Want us to help?”
They took the cart to the repair station. Tamsin found a length of proper cord, and Toby made the replacement knot himself with Leo’s guidance. They pulled it under load, checked that both wheels turned evenly, and walked the cart through the lane before allowing him to sit in it. His grandfather arrived just as Toby completed the last test. The older man asked whether he had missed the race.
“It’s not a race anymore,” Toby said, still slightly disappointed. Then he brightened. “But watch how I fixed it.”
He turned the handlebars. The wheels followed together. His grandfather applauded before anybody announced a prize. Caleb saw Odessa watching from her chair, rubbing her thumb along the cane handle. She had spent the morning afraid that no one would hear her. Now the youngest child on the course was explaining why careful work mattered, and people were listening.
CHAPTER TEN: WHAT THE CHILDREN BUILT
The revised showcase began after lunch. Volunteers marked a flat lane in bright chalk and set up low barriers. Reuben required every cart to pass a visual and functional inspection before it entered. No one was allowed to borrow Grant’s wheel assemblies. Parents helped remove unsuitable parts, while the teenagers repaired what they could using equipment from the old maintenance shed.
Caleb spent an hour kneeling on the pavement beside a boy whose steering rod was too long. Odessa directed volunteers from a folding chair, her knee wrapped, explaining adjustments with patient clarity. She had never been gentle when discussing machinery, but she was surprisingly kind with children who admitted they did not understand something. When a young girl asked whether a loose wheel meant her cart was worthless, Odessa answered, “A loose wheel means we found something worth fixing before the fun begins.”
