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 alreadylaying down—in the ditch and sleep for a while.
“Ow.”
* * * *
Summers in Vermont were not supposed to be an agony of dripping sweat and oppressive heat. It was, Brandon reflected, often the only benefit to long winters when the sun went on strike and there was nothing but gray clouds and the agony of that first breath where the air splintered in your lungs; where your lips cracked and bled unless you went through a tube of Chapstick every day. So why, he sighed, blowing his sweat-sticky bangs off his forehead, was it so freaking hot? The news announced that temperatures for the week were going to break the 1911 records of 105 degrees by the end of the week. 105? That wasn’t a temperature, it was a bad bowling score score.
Five years of working at what had started as a “summer job” between college semesters had all the earmarks of turning into a depressing career. He checked his aunt’s calendar; two units were going up for auction tomorrow. Aunt Ginny was kind; she’d kept the units untouched for over six months after their owners had stopped paying the monthly service fees, had attempted to contact said owners multiple times to just come get their stuff, no hard feelings. But in the end, the units were full and the bills unpaid and kindness didn’t cover the groceries. She’d started the auctions a few years before after one of those stupid reality television garnered interest in bidding on one man’s trash, hoping to find a treasure.
It was Brandon’s job to get the lot ready for the sales: clean up, check the locks, make sure that the bolt-cutter was easily available, and put out the folding chairs. If he had time, he could fix the office door, which had a tendency to swell and not shut properly, especially in the summer. Tomorrow, there would be tourists and locals gathered around the red-painted garage-style storage units, bidding on the unseen contents. He gazed up at the sun, squinting against the too-blue glare of sky. Maybe he should think ahead and stock a few coolers with soda and ice. He could price them into a wad of extra cash, selling cold drinks for three dollars a bottle. He made a note on the pad near Aunt Ginny’s desk and then headed into the fenced-in lot to clean.
