"Uh… fries, a chicken burger, and coffee. Black. No sugar," I finally managed.

"Who's paying?" Oscar asked as I slumped onto the stool beside him, marveling at how effortlessly he’d scaled the height.

"I’ve got it," I muttered. "Just give me a minute."

"A minute for what?"

"A minute to figure out what the hell’s even going on here," I said, dunking a fry into ketchup so deep it emerged half-drowned in nuclear-red sauce.

The food arrived suspiciously fast.

"Think something’s off here?" Oscar whispered conspiratorially, sipping his juice.

"Not sure yet," I muttered. "Alright, time to make that call."

I walked over to the wall-mounted phone and picked up the receiver. As the dial tone buzzed in my ear, I patted my pockets for the scrap of paper with the number.

"Damn it!" I slammed the receiver back down hard enough to make the waitress flinch.

"What’s your problem?" Oscar hissed, darting over. "You’ll scare off the regulars—they don’t like loudmouths here."

"Must’ve left the number in my pants pocket," I growled. "Probably soaked through after the lake. The ink’s gone. Perfect."

"Relax! Even if it’s ruined, we’ll just go back to the stop and tear off a fresh one. Easy!" Oscar said, trying to sound upbeat.

"I wanted to sort out the bike today, Oz," I sighed, rubbing my temples. The exhaustion was hitting hard.

"Well, well!"

A lanky blond man sidled up to us, his sharp green eyes glinting with amusement. His features were gaunt—deep-set eyes, a long nose that came to a pointed tip—giving him the look of a smug fox who’d just caught wind of prey.

"What do you want?" I asked unfriendly, in no mood for small talk.

"Don’t take me for a spy, but I happened to overhear you’re looking for a bike."

The guy’s voice was grating, with a shrill, nasal quality. And at the end of every sentence, he spoke louder, like he was trying to puncture my eardrums. His gaunt, bony face reminded me of a cartoon Grinch—every muscle tensed into this smug, mocking expression.

He’s definitely stealing what little patience I have left, I thought, already plotting how to shake him off.

"So, what do you say, friends?" the guy pressed. "Still in the market for a bike?"

"Yeah!" Oscar nodded enthusiastically. "Definitely interested."

"Perfect!" The guy clapped his hands. "I’ve got one parked right outside the diner, and I’m ready to sell."

"Why the sudden urge?" I asked skeptically.

"Been wanting to upgrade for a while now."

The guy leaned against the wall and gazed dreamily through the diner's small window:

"My buddies all traded their worn-out nags for flashy cars. Can you believe it? Meanwhile, I'm still stuck with this old bike—can't even upgrade to a newer model."

"Trying to keep up with the pack?" I remarked sarcastically. "Is it really that important?"

"Damn right it is, my friend," he shot back without hesitation. "See, they're always—always—one step ahead of me. And it's just not fair!"

"Maybe you should get new friends if it bothers you that much," I snorted, amazed by his petty envy.

The guy practically radiated toxic, utterly pointless bitterness.

"That's not the solution, pal," he said, shaking his head. "But if you buy my bike, I can finally get mine."

"Alright, let's take a look at it first," I agreed.

At this point, I'd take anything—even a three-legged horse—just to get out of here.

We stepped outside, and my eyes landed on a perfect retro-styled naked bike. The black steel beast, with its spoke-like alloy wheels, gleamed playfully in the sunlight, completely out of place in this backwater.

"You're joking," I laughed, turning to the guy. "This is a brand-new model—a real speed demon for serious riders."