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* * *
He dons the backpack and crouches over to the edge of the roof.
After a quick back and forth glance at the lip, he hefts himself over, drops his chest to his hands, lets gravity straighten his arms, and drops into a surprisingly quiet landing.
Immediately he skips up the handicap ramp to the back entrance. Pulling the orange and purple sunnies out of the bag as he ambles through the door, he almost makes it past the rearmost tables before he remembers—
Gloves!
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Stepping casually against the wall, he pulls them off and stuffs them in his pockets—deep in his pockets, no sense being incriminated by so careless a blunder as losing your gloves 2 blocks from the scene of the crime.
He tips the shades up on his brow and, spine straightened, chest puffed, chin raised—the very antidoppelgänger of that scoliotic bandit from earlier—makes his way into the cafe, through the crowd,
and out the front entrance.
To Linden Street by way of East Beaufort!
A few blocks later he arrives at the no-parking sign where he’d locked up the bike 2 days before.
Having considered the possibility, he’d had a backup plan in the event it was gone when he arrived: another bike locked up a few blocks further still.
In the event that that one was gone too? Well, then he’d just have to embrace the suck and foot it down the trail.
He can’t suppress the grin when he sees it, right there where he’d left it. Presumably the other bike is still locked up, waiting for him, though in this moment he hardly cares.
He’d found the beat-up Mongooses on Craigslist and talked the seller down to an even $100 for the pair, picking them up shortly after getting to town.
Both were pieces of shit—although that had been one of the selling points—it was the likely reason this lock hadn’t been chopped.
Ultimately the tires had held air and either could get him across town in less than a fourth the time as on foot.
* * *
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