Maybe somebody would pay cash.
Maybe nobody would ask his age.
He spent six hours cleaning the chain and adjusting the wheel.
At sunset, he rode fifty yards.
The chain jumped.
He walked the bicycle back.
Second day.
Better.
Third day.
Leo’s food ran out.
He had four crackers left and less than half a canteen of water.
That morning he walked toward the dry creek behind the station.
He had learned that beneath shaded sections of earth, sometimes moisture remained longer than on the open ground.
He dug with a piece of flattened metal.
Nothing.
Moved farther.
Dug again.
Still nothing.
By ten in the morning, heat radiated from every surface.
Leo sat beneath a low bank.
His mouth was dry.
He removed Sully’s Zippo.
Opened it.
Closed it.
Click.
Open.
Click.
Closed.
The sound calmed him.
He wondered where Sully was.
Probably Phoenix.
Maybe California.
Maybe already forgotten.
Leo did not blame him.
People always moved on.
Then tires crunched across gravel.
Leo froze.
One vehicle.
Then another.
He crawled up the creek bank.
Looked through dry sagebrush.
A white Ford Explorer with a sheriff’s light bar stopped outside the station.
Leo’s stomach dropped.
Behind it came a silver Dodge Ram.
He knew every dent on that truck.
Hank Dawson.
The driver’s door opened.
Hank stepped down carrying a wooden bat.
Even at a distance, Leo recognized the way he moved when angry.
Fast.
Heavy.
Shoulders high.
Deputy Carl Higgins climbed out of the Explorer.
Leo had seen him before.
Higgins had visited Hank’s house several times.