The years slipped by swiftly. Seasons shifted, and the calendar rolled from 1902 into 1905.
In the cavernous, oil-scented industrial garage in New York, four men—three white men and one black man—stood waiting, their tension palpable.
Suddenly, the distinct, powerful thrum of a four-cylinder engine grew loud, echoing off the concrete walls. A strong, black vehicle, dusty from the road, pulled into the garage bay. The men rushed forward, surrounding the car.
The driver's door opened, and a tall figure, now over six feet, fit and muscled, stepped out. He pulled off his leather driving goggles, revealing the face of Michael Kingston, now fifteen. The immaturity of childhood was almost entirely gone, replaced by the sharp, determined features of a young man on the verge of adulthood.
"Well, Michael?" the blonde-haired man with glasses asked, his voice tight with anxiety.
Michael smiled, a broad, relieved smile. "Gentlemen," he declared, "it's a success."
A roar of cheers erupted from the group.
"The details, Michael! Give us the figures!" urged the black man, Robert Harrison.
Michael, pulling his dust-covered notepad, flipped to the final page. "The journey was handled well, and the engine was remarkably consistent," he said, his voice crisp.
He read the specifics of the design built for efficiency: "Tank capacity is ten gallons. She held strong at approximately 14 to 15 miles per gallon (15.7 to 16.8 liters per 100 kilometers) at a top speed of about 42 miles per hour (67.5 kilometers per hour) for sustained periods where the roads allowed."
He paused, letting the metrics sink in. "The vibration feedback was minimal, and critically, the new starter worked flawlessly through every stop. If this car can handle that long haul at a usable speed, anyone can use it. I think, gentlemen, we are ready."
As the team celebrated their breakthrough—shaking hands and slapping the hood of the car—Michael looked at them and smiled.
The core team consisted of Robert Harrison, the black mechanic, thirty-eight years old; Jake Cooper, the young mechanical engineer, twenty-five years old; Lionel Brown, the forty-year-old grey-haired mechanical engineer; and Brad Smith, the young mechanic, twenty-five years old.
When Michael, then a twelve-year-old boy, first approached them to create an affordable car for the general public, their reactions were skeptical. The experienced engineers and mechanics found it difficult to accept a child as their boss. But the phenomenal annual salary of $3,000 was impossible to refuse.
In the early 1900s, the automobile was a rich man's plaything—a custom-made toy laden with luxury fittings and unnecessary decoration. Michael, having applied streamlined functionality to his general stores, was determined to strip away the excess.
His goal was simple: to build a dependable, affordable car for the common person. Over two years, his team had refined a four-cylinder engine and a simplified chassis, incorporating the best features of existing models.
Michael took the impractical 1903 patent by Clyde J. Coleman for the electric starter and set about improving it with his team. Michael's previous life as Dean helped, as he had seen and even worked on cars with better electric starters in his past. However, those memories were hazy, requiring him to rely heavily on his team to make the device practical and reliable for the car.
After several short-distance test runs, Michael took the car on a crucial long-distance test drive from New York City to Cambridge, Massachusetts, and back. The successful completion of this rigorous round trip proved that the car was durable and reliable enough for the everyday public.
The celebration was cut short by the sharp sound of Michael's hands clapping once.
"Gentlemen, it is only the beginning," Michael said, his smile fading into serious focus. "We still have a lot of work to do."
They nodded, instantly refocusing on their young boss.
"By the end of this year, I want this car to be available to the public," Michael stated. "So, make necessary modifications, refine the design for large-scale production, and try to improve its performance where possible."
Lionel Brown, the grey-haired engineer, frowned in surprise. "By the end of this year? And that too for the public?"
Brad Smith, the young mechanic, echoed the practical concern. "We need a factory to build them in large numbers."
Michael wiped the dust from his face with a clean cloth. "I have already started making all the preparations. I did so the moment the first short-distance test run was successful. The factory will be fully operational in three months."
The four men stared at him, astonished by the scale of his efficiency and the sheer courage of the fifteen-year-old. But it was not courage driving Michael; it was certainty. His gift had told him that the car was a winner, and he simply trusted it.
Michael took a moment to let the reality sink in. "So, take a break these next few days, gentlemen, because you are going to get busy. As the only people who know how this car works, you need to build a few more—by hand, without the factory—for publicity purposes."
They nodded, the astonishment now replaced with determination.
********
In Kingston's expansive home in New York, Mary and Elizabeth were trying on the dresses for the wedding that was going to be held in two days. And the atmosphere was one of elegant chaos as they reviewed the new gowns that the tailor had custom-made for the important social event.
Etta, a longtime family friend who had willingly taken on the role of head maid, was assisting them.
Elizabeth, admiring a deep emerald silk, looked up from the fabric. "Etta, has Michael come home yet?"
"Not yet, Mrs. Elizabeth, but he phoned and said he is coming," Etta replied, her tone perfectly crisp.
Elizabeth nodded but sighed in mock exasperation. "Etta, how many times have I told you to call me just Liz?"
Etta paused her work, meeting Elizabeth's gaze with a respectful but unyielding expression. "And I have told you, Madam, it is not appropriate. Not if I were to call you by your first name by mistake before others. We must maintain the status you hold."
Mary, holding a sapphire gown up to the light, laughed softly. "Liz, you can't win with her. Just accept it."
"Well, I have to try," Elizabeth chuckled, giving up the battle for the hundredth time.
Elizabeth's expression turned thoughtful. "I still don't understand Michael's interest in cars. Why involve us in another massive business? We have our fingers in too many ventures as it is."
Mary answered casually, "Let it go, Liz. Maybe Michael sees something we don't."
Mary gave a small, almost imperceptible signal—a subtle warning not to discuss certain topics in front of Etta. Mary was careful with her words, knowing that while they trusted Etta implicitly, some secrets about Michael's gift were safer kept among the immediate family.
Etta, completely unaware of their private exchange, continued her meticulous work folding a cloak. "Master Michael is exceptionally gifted. He clearly has a purpose here. After all, isn't he brilliant enough to be enrolled at Harvard already?"
Mary and Elizabeth immediately exchanged a look of maternal pride at those words.
Yes, Michael, at just fifteen, was officially enrolled at Harvard.
It was for this exact reason that Michael had combined his last test run, traveling from New York City to Cambridge, Massachusetts—to test the car's features on a long haul and to visit the campus where he would soon start his studies.
Lost in this quiet moment of shared pride, they were suddenly startled by a ripple of commotion that echoed up from the grand foyer—the unmistakable sound of the butler's raised voice, a deep, new resonance in the hall, and the confident, firm tread of boots on the marble floor.
Michael had arrived home.
The two women instantly abandoned the gowns and silks, their thoughts of weddings and society forgotten, eager to greet him.