There were no attacks in the night, and I slept well for the first time in too long. Silvie was here. My best friend was close by.
We set out again early the next morning, fast, hoping that our soaked-from-the-morning-dew clothes would dry soon.
I watched Silvie closely as she peddled furiously in front of me. I had asked Silvie (twice) how she knew where we were going. Her answers were always muddled. So far, I had figured out that the Man, the one who had visited her in the night before, had told her where to go...or something like that. I just knew that I was supposed to follow her.
We biked all day, eating some of the food we had brought during breaks.
During one such time, I asked Silvie "How much longer do you think we'll be traveling?"
She inspected her cracker. "I don't know exactly. Soon."
I grimaced as I bit into a pear. I hate pears. After forcing myself to swallow, I said, "Well, I hope it's soon. I'm sick of pears. And these ones are mushy."
Silvie smiled and started packing things again. I helped.
We rode all day.
I was beginning to think that I was going to wear holes in my tennis shoes just from peddling.
My back hurt from riding, and I was sick of sitting on the bike seat. I tried to remember what a bed felt like. And a pillow-all warm and soft and cozy, and a warm, fuzzy blanket, and sleeping in pajamas. I stopped trying to remember. It hurt too much.
It was the next morning that they increased. My writing attacks. (That is what we dubbed them.) After the forth one (which Silvie successfully stopped) Silvie said gravely. "We're getting close."
I was panting too much to reply, but I nodded my head. I hoped so. I was sick of these attacks.
We entered a city later in the day. I've never much liked cities, but biking through one was even worse than driving, or even walking.
Silvie seemed to know where she was going though, thank goodness, and by dusk we were slipping through alleyways.
I wonder who is causing this? What is causing it? What does Silvie have in mind?
My front tire bumped something and startled me out of my thoughts. Silvie had stopped. I looked up.
We had stopped in front of a ramshackle building that looked to be made just for storing dirt.
"Don't you think you could have picked out a better place for a rest stop, Silvie?" I asked uneasily.
She didn't turn back, but said solemnly, "This isn't a rest spot. We're here."
We set out again early the next morning, fast, hoping that our soaked-from-the-morning-dew clothes would dry soon.
I watched Silvie closely as she peddled furiously in front of me. I had asked Silvie (twice) how she knew where we were going. Her answers were always muddled. So far, I had figured out that the Man, the one who had visited her in the night before, had told her where to go...or something like that. I just knew that I was supposed to follow her.
We biked all day, eating some of the food we had brought during breaks.
During one such time, I asked Silvie "How much longer do you think we'll be traveling?"
She inspected her cracker. "I don't know exactly. Soon."
I grimaced as I bit into a pear. I hate pears. After forcing myself to swallow, I said, "Well, I hope it's soon. I'm sick of pears. And these ones are mushy."
Silvie smiled and started packing things again. I helped.
We rode all day.
I was beginning to think that I was going to wear holes in my tennis shoes just from peddling.
My back hurt from riding, and I was sick of sitting on the bike seat. I tried to remember what a bed felt like. And a pillow-all warm and soft and cozy, and a warm, fuzzy blanket, and sleeping in pajamas. I stopped trying to remember. It hurt too much.
It was the next morning that they increased. My writing attacks. (That is what we dubbed them.) After the forth one (which Silvie successfully stopped) Silvie said gravely. "We're getting close."
I was panting too much to reply, but I nodded my head. I hoped so. I was sick of these attacks.
We entered a city later in the day. I've never much liked cities, but biking through one was even worse than driving, or even walking.
Silvie seemed to know where she was going though, thank goodness, and by dusk we were slipping through alleyways.
I wonder who is causing this? What is causing it? What does Silvie have in mind?
My front tire bumped something and startled me out of my thoughts. Silvie had stopped. I looked up.
We had stopped in front of a ramshackle building that looked to be made just for storing dirt.
"Don't you think you could have picked out a better place for a rest stop, Silvie?" I asked uneasily.
She didn't turn back, but said solemnly, "This isn't a rest spot. We're here."
