 |
|
|
Broken
|
The sun's rays reflected off the black asphalt street,
off the black paint and metal of the bike, off the windows of the storefronts,
and onto the gas flowing from the leak in the tank as it dripped in
a steady, glistening stream down the frame and into the plastic bucket
below.
I looked down the street. The end of the town was two blocks away. I stared at the leak again. I wasn't going to get a welder in this town, and even if I did, how would I keep it from leaking again? I wasn't going to patch it with goop, either. The whole thing -- gas and engine heat, hot weather, sparks -- was too frightening. Anything else would be okay. I'd limp along and at least not worry about an explosive, fiery death at 50 miles an hour . . . . . . read the rest of this story in American Borders - the book. |
