Making the Jump
By T. Keeney
“It’s not too much to ask, you know.” Sandra sighed, the sound wispy through the phone. Bob imagined her lighting a cigarette, her bitten nails looking raw. “You’ll be down here in Daytona anyway. The stable is like thirty minutes from there, straight down I-95.”
Bob stood at his workbench, phone scrunched against his shoulder as he hung up tools on his new pegboard. His two-car garage held a 1998 Ford F-150, dinged up, with a mismatched topper and an add-on hitch for towing his Harley, when it was just too frigging cold to ride. It was the first of March—Bike Week was coming up. Bob was fastening on his new saddlebags, turquoise leather to pop against the custom pumpkin paint job he’d gotten last winter. The closed-in garage smelled of new leather and oil
