"Yeah, well—that's life. What can you do?" He knocked his rubber boots together with a dull thud.

Suppressing a surge of irritation, I started examining all the torn flyers, searching for at least one intact one. After about ten minutes, I found it.

"PORCELAIN FIGURINES. CUSTOM ORDERS," read a small rectangular card, with neatly handwritten phone number strips dangling below.

"Weird," I muttered.

"What is it?" the kid asked.

"The handwriting… it seems familiar."

"Maybe one of your friends makes figurines? I'd totally go to an exhibit like that."

Yeah, right… Out here in the middle of nowhere, you'd take any exhibit you could get.

I strained to recall if I’d seen that number before, but something else caught my eye—another ad I hadn’t noticed earlier.

"MOTORCYCLE FOR SALE. GOOD CONDITION."

"I remember buying my bike thanks to an ad just like this," I smiled, suddenly picturing my old steel companion. "Never regretted it for a second."

"Your parents must've worried about you," Oscar said. "My grandpa always says bikes are dangerous. That you get addicted to speed without even noticing. Not that I'd know—I've only got a bicycle, but he keeps warning me anyway."

"My grandfather was the same," I replied. "Always cautious when it came to family, but a total daredevil himself."

"When I grow up, I'm getting a motorcycle too," the kid declared proudly. "Then I won’t have to sit at this bus stop forever."

"You know what?" I slapped my knees and stood up. "You're right. Enough waiting around."

"Wait, where are you going?" Oscar scrambled to his feet.

"Back to the house. I'm done with this."

I tore off the phone number and headed toward the cabin, grabbing the kid's backpack on the way.

"Tomorrow I’ll call about the ad and see if the owner can bring the bike here."

"Wait—you actually have money to buy it?" Oscar asked skeptically.

"I’ll figure that out later," I said, scratching my sunburnt forehead. "At the very least, I’ll ask for a taxi number so one can actually come out here. Since this godforsaken place has no internet… Christ, it’s boiling."

"Hey," Oscar bristled, "don’t call my home ‘godforsaken.’"

"Sorry, you know what I mean," I muttered, embarrassed. "What’ve you got in this backpack, bricks?"

"Just the essentials!" he declared.

I smirked at the way he scrunched his nose indignantly, then glanced back one last time at the bus stop—now just a sliver of its roof visible through the reeds.

"Weird," I mused after a moment. "Why so many torn-off ads if this place is so remote? Barely anyone comes through here."

"Who knows?" The kid shrugged. "Maybe this stop was a starting point more often than you’d think."

The night was restless. I tossed and turned, futilely trying to get comfortable on the stiff mattress I’d dragged out from the storage room—with the kid’s permission, of course. Meanwhile, he slept soundly in his single bed, snoring softly and occasionally smacking his lips. Once or twice, he even muttered something in his sleep, though I couldn’t make out the words.

Probably still eating that sandwich in his dreams, I thought, flipping onto my side for the hundredth time.

Finally admitting defeat, I got up and tiptoed out of the house, trying to stay quiet despite the floorboards creaking their protests.

Outside, the darkness was absolute—no streetlights, no glow of civilization. Without artificial light, the night felt hushed and oddly welcoming, though as a kid, I’d hated the dark. Back then, it always seemed to hide danger, every rustle sharp and hostile in my ears. Especially in the city, where drunken barhoppers lurked around every corner.