They thanked him and pedaled on, but a mile into the woods, the canopy swallowed the remaining light. Then, Jane’s tire hissed and went flat.
The light began to move toward them, bouncing with a slow, deliberate pace. And soon, the darkness was no longer their only problem.
"It’s a puncture," Jane whispered, her eyes darting to the shadows. "Cathy, I don’t like this." "It’s okay. We’ll just walk."
They stopped at a crossroad where a rusted sign pointed toward a town neither of them recognized. As they debated which way to turn, a man appeared from the tree line. He was lean, dressed in a faded canvas jacket, carrying a heavy wrench. He didn’t wave; he just watched them.
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