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  • RPA


“Don’t do it. Don’t you do it,” I said, jokingly. “I heard the cops plant bikes to bust bicycle thieves. Yeah. It doesn’t matter if it’s just a joyride. Or worse, it could be a prank. Hop on a stranded bike, tongue hanging out, giving that first push on the pedal everything you’ve got, and WHAM, you’re yanked off a bike attached to a hidden cable, YouTubers coming out of nowhere like crazed monkeys, cameras in your face to film you in all of your shame.”

My son laughed.

Besides. It was just plain spooky. A lady’s bike parked on the asphalt trail, kickstand down, all by itself. Coming into the light of our lantern and beam on our family night hike. A prissy, little white bicycle with a tan seat, handlebars turned ‘properly’ to the side.

“Maybe they’re in the woods peeing,” my wife said.

“In the dark, babe?” My eyes quickly scanned the treeline. We picked up the pace.

The moon, yellow eye of the wolf, followed us, watching us the whole night. And wheezing, chests tight, we were all having trouble breathing. My son kept trying to spit the cedar out. When we reached the parking lot, I looked up. An airplane banked hard, right after takeoff, lights blinking, thrusting upwards, under a black and blue cobalt sky.


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