When you wake up, it’s daytime and you’re still on the bike. He may have been driving all night for all you know. Or was it a she? You finally notice the protrusion of her breasts under the jacket you’ve been holding close to.
Your ride takes you through a long underground tunnel that you think is out of place for this part of the country. A few minutes after this, a semi-truck in front of you has to wait for a drawbridge to open like a ship in a river would – doubly odd. The cyclist turns off on an exit for a short break. Here at the petrol station (you must be in Canada now), you finally get the chance to ask her where she’s taking you.
“To get you fixed.”
“But why not just drop me off at a hospital?”
“You know why, don’t you? Those rocks. I know about them.”
She pulls off her leather riding gloves and reveals to you a luminescent imprint on her skin, like a magical tattoo.
“Left a mark last time I touched one. Almost killed me. In fact, go take a look at yourself in a mirror.” There in the station’s restroom, you’re startled to see streaks running down your face and neck like the ones on her hand but in different hues. She opens the door and walks in.
“I know someone who can help you…who helped me. I’ll just have to take you further into Saskatchewan.”
You get queasy again and collapse at the sound of a word resembling Sasquatch.
Go to page 155.
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