"You know what? You're right!"

Selena said it so loudly that a grumble came from inside the trailer—Oscar, stirring awake.

We laughed and headed inside. It was time to at least try to sleep.

After barely four hours of sleep, running on adrenaline from the upcoming tasks and sleep deprivation, I stepped out of the trailer to the mouthwatering aroma of frying sausages and coffee.

Oscar was already polishing off his breakfast with relish while Selena expertly flipped the remaining sausages on a small cast-iron grill, poking at them with a fork.

"Hungry?" she asked me, flashing a smile—this time genuine, without a trace of yesterday's unease.

"Starving," I nodded, dropping onto the beanbag chair next to Oscar that she'd dragged outside.

"We should do these outings more often," the kid said, licking his fingers. "Just gotta remember to pack rations next time."

"Easy there, cowboy," I snorted. "Your grandad's probably turning the place upside down looking for you."

"Doubt it. He usually takes off for two or three weeks at a time. Travel's in his blood."

"Funny," Selena said, handing me a plate of sausages that still sizzled and popped with heat. "Your grandfather once told me he hates traveling and only does it out of necessity."

"How long's it been this time?" I asked carefully.

"Not long," the kid shrugged, grabbing a glass of water from the folding table. "Five days, maybe."

I tried to calculate how long I'd been stuck with Oscar. By my internal clock, it had to be at least a week—but I had no proof.

After a cholesterol-and-caffeine-fueled breakfast, we hitched the motorcycle to the trailer and set off for the private repair shop Selena had mentioned earlier.

As we pulled up to a small building with a neon sign reading "END OF THE LINE," two figures emerged to greet us.

An older man with long gray hair tied back in a ponytail tilted his head to the side, studying the bike with a critical eye. Meanwhile, a younger guy—presumably the mechanic's son—planted his hands on his hips and waited for us to climb out of the trailer, its door screeching shut behind us.

He too had long hair (though jet-black), tied up in a bun that gleamed with an oily sheen in the sunlight. It reminded me instantly of Indians and their lustrous braids, worn by both men and women.

The guy slid his sunglasses down his nose and gave me a nod.

"Another hotshot found our little 'End of the Line,' huh?" he drawled. "Lemme guess—you were just riding along when, outta nowhere, it decided to stop hauling your lazy asses through the backcountry?"

"We bought it from a local," I said, deciding to throw shade at the locals. "His name's Kurt. Heard of him?"

"Who hasn't heard of him?" The old man laughed, adjusting a wrench in his stretched-out jeans pocket that kept shifting and threatening to fall out. "That swindler buys up all the junk that shines and looks appealing, then sells it off as brand new."

"I'll beat the stupid out of him," I gritted my teeth, trying to suppress my anger.

"Oh come on, cool your jets!"

The young man approached the motorcycle (which Selena had already unhitched from the trailer) and gave it a quick once-over.

"This 'warrior' has plenty of life left. After repairs, it'll be good as new. Hell, I'd bet a pint of ale this bike sat in Kurt's place for ages."

"Why's that?" I grumbled, still riding my aggressive emotions.

"Kurt can't ride for shit," the old man chuckled, "but apparently his act as a hardcore biker works, since you fell for it."

The men burst into even louder laughter, and even Selena and Oscar turned away to avoid provoking me with their snickering.