Chapter 5: The Price of Survival
Sweat poured down my face as I sprinted to the block with the motorcycle shop. My shirt stuck to my back, sneakers slapping hot pavement. I scanned storefronts until I spotted the faded motorcycle logo.
The place looked deserted except for a big guy in jeans and an oil-stained tee, already pulling down the metal shutter.
"Hey, wait up!" I yelled, waving frantically. My voice cracked.
He turned, eyebrows raised. "Sorry, kid, shop's closed. I gotta get home before my wife has my hide."
Desperate, I whipped out my phone and scanned the Venmo QR code on the door. The payment chime sounded, and his phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, squinting in disbelief at the $7,000 transfer.
He stared. "Dude, did you win the lottery?"
Yeah, I did. The prize was another shot at life.
But I just wiped my face and said, "Man, I gotta get home to my folks. Traffic’s a mess—can’t drive a car."
"Give me your best in-stock bike. I’ll take it right now—no questions."
He eyed me, then shrugged. "Alright."
He led me to a red Yamaha 450. "This one—sport model, new chain, fresh oil. Keys are in it."
"I’ll take it. And keep the extra grand. I need gas—five cans—and two spare tires. Also, a set of tools for taking it apart."
He hustled to the back, emerging with tools, spark plugs, and jerry cans. We loaded it all up fast.
I strapped everything to the bike, axe at my waist, and caught my wild-eyed reflection in the glass. Mad Max had nothing on me.
Before leaving, I urged him to get to higher ground. He just stared, maybe thinking I was nuts. I hoped he’d remember.