Chapter 1
Heat Wave: Burlington
By Lynn Townsend
Scott had exactly four seconds to prioritize when the SUV clipped his bike’s rear tire and sent him careening into the ditch: brain, backpack, body, bike. He’d fallen off his bike a few times before, although usually it was through his own dumbassery and not some careless driver on a cell phone—who probably hadn’t even felt the impact and even if they did, wouldn’t stop.
Brain. Priority one. Everything. If he busted up his head, he could kiss any chance of anything else goodbye. He was already wearing a helmet.
Priority two: backpack. Under normal circumstances, this wouldn’t have been a consideration. Stuff was, for the most part, just stuff and could be replaced. But this time, his backpack contained several other sub-bags, which in turn lovingly cradled his Nikon D810 and his extra lenses. He didn’t relish the idea of trying to replace that camera. Not to mention, priority three: body.
If Scott handed on the backpack, it was going to hurt—well, hurt more—than if he landed flat on the ground.
He’d already mentally written off the bike; if he was lucky, it would be repairable. But there was no saving it in the .3 seconds he had remaining.
Scott tucked his chin and rolled, hitting the ground with his shoulder. The backpack jostled against him once, but he skidded along on his side, avoiding the worst damage. He took most of what appeared to be a fluffy suburban shrubbery to the face; it wasn’t so soft up close, being all spiny branches and prickly leaves, all determined to flay the skin right off his cheek. He heard a car’s horn blare, rolled out of the way, just in case, and ended up on his belly in the bottom of a drainage ditch. An unpleasant crunch of metal clued him in that the bike was, by all accounts, probably lost.
The first moment after he struck the ground was, astonishingly, almost pain-free. His cheek, on fire with scrapes, didn’t agree. But his limbs all seemed to be still attached. His head was ringing a bit and it was hard to see. Gray and black clouds fuzzed over the colors and dim popbulbs of light were flashing in the corners. He closed his eyes and let his head down to rest it against one arm. His skin felt wet, sticky.
The camera bags were waterproof, he reminded himself. And he didn’t seem to be laying in very deep water, anyway. Dead leaves, apparently, filled this ditch. Dead, smelly leaves. Reminiscent of college dorm rooms and mildewed shower curtains. It was, Scott reflected, somewhat cooler here in the bottom of the ditch than it had been up on the street. The wet he’d noticed was dripping down his cheek. Sweat, maybe. Or blood.
He couldn’t bring himself to care, much. All the air had been knocked out of his lungs, all the motivation had been knocked out of his head. He was just going to lay down—he was already laying down—in the ditch and sleep for a while.
“Ow.”
