16. Dannica
DANNICA
LOCAL WOMAN NEARLY MUGGED. FRIENDS SOMEHOW WORSE
The air has that feel to it today.
Not cold yet, but cooler than it has been.
Like fall is standing just offstage, waiting for its cue, and occasionally leaning in to remind us it’s coming.
It brushes against my cheeks as I pedal, slips down the collar of my shirt, tugs at loose strands of my hair like it knows I’m in a good mood and wants in on it.
Which… rude. But I’ll allow it. Because for once, I am in a good mood.
No late orders. No customers asking for oat milk we don’t carry.
No Quadri side-eyeing me like she knows something I don’t.
Just me, my bike, and a straightforward mission to the print shop.
Shelly did me a favor, but you bet my apple-bottom ass I’m not gonna tell her that.
I huff out a quiet laugh to myself and pedal a little faster, the tires humming beneath me as the road dips slightly toward Main.
The town looks different this time of day, like it’s taking a breath before the evening rush.
Leaves skitter across the pavement, catching in the spokes for half a second before flying off again. I smile wide. Ah, this is the life.
I roll over a slight crack in the road, and it makes my stomach flip like it did when Grandma used to go over bumps in the road a lot faster than she should have and made me feel like I’d left my stomach behind.
“Whoohooo!”
But then there’s a sharp clunk beneath me and my entire bike jolts.
“What the?—”
The handlebars jerk sideways, hard enough that my stomach drops straight to my knees. My foot slips on the pedal as the back wheel makes this deeply concerning grinding noise that feels less like a mechanical issue and more like the hounds of hell are after me.
“Oh no, no, no?—”
I swerve, overcorrect, and for one horrifying second I am absolutely, undeniably about to eat pavement in front of God, Main Street, and probably Mrs. Henderson who will never let me live it down. This feels oddly like history repeating itself. What the hell is my bike’s problem?
I wrench the handlebars back, gripping so tight my fingers ache, and slam my foot down to stop myself. The bike lurches. Wobbles. Decides, very dramatically, to give up on life entirely.
I manage to stumble off instead of falling, catching myself with a graceless hop that is technically not a crash, but spiritually? Very much a crash.
I stand there, breathing hard, one hand still clamped around the handlebar like I can’t believe that nearly happened.
I look down. The chain is wrong. Wrong in a way that suggests it has made a series of very bad decisions and is now facing the consequences.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I mutter.
Headline updates immediately.
LOCAL WOMAN BETRAYED BY TRUSTED BICYCLE, NEARLY MEETS TRAGIC END ONE BLOCK FROM DESTINATION.
I close my eyes briefly, tipping my head back toward the sky.
“Cool,” I say to absolutely no one. “Fuck you, universe. I don’t need your cool breeze and good vibes only for you to screw me without lube. Screw you!”
Because of course. Of course the one time things feel easy, my bike decides to stage a full mechanical meltdown halfway to the place that could actually fix it.
I stare at the chain a second longer, like if I give it enough time it might reconsider its choices.
It does not. Traitor. I blow out a breath and straighten, brushing my hands down my jeans like I’ve just gone through a life-threatening situation which, honestly, it feels like I have.
There was a moment there. A real, life-flashing-before-my-eyes moment. And for what? A mid-afternoon errand.
Amazing. Shelly is going to pay for this. It doesn’t escape me that a moment ago I was praising her for doing me a favor. Well, things change.
I glance down the road toward the print shop. It’s not far. I can practically see it from here if I lean a little to the left and ignore the tree that’s aggressively minding its business in the way. Then I look back at the bike. Then back at the shop. Then back at the bike again.
“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be,” I tell it.
The bike, committed to its villain arc, says nothing.
Right. Cool. Great talk.
Shifting my grip on the handlebars, I start turning the bike around, the back wheel giving a sad, crunchy protest as if it’s offended that I expect it to function in any capacity whatsoever.
New headline.
LOCAL WOMAN FORCED INTO WALK OF SHAME WITH brOKEN BICYCLE, PRIDE ALSO IN CRITICAL CONDITION.
I start pushing. It’s anything but graceful.
The wheel drags slightly, the chain doing whatever the mechanical equivalent of sulking is, and every few steps there’s a tiny jolt that travels up my arms like the bike is reminding me who’s really in control here. But fine, I can adapt. I always adapt.
The diner’s only a few blocks back, and once I drop this mechanical disappointment off, I can just walk to the print shop. It’s not like I haven’t done it before. It’s fine. It’s scenic. It’s character building.
Shelly will pay.
I narrow my eyes again.
“Why does everything that builds character feel suspiciously like a mild inconvenience?” I mutter.
No answer. Just the soft scrape of rubber on pavement and the faint rustle of leaves skittering past like they’re late for something.
I keep going. Because the thing is, Shelly’s print job is not optional.
She had that look this morning. The one that says she has a Vision.
Capital V. The kind that involves glitter, possibly glue, and definitely something that will somehow become my responsibility if it goes wrong.
And I am not, not, going back empty-handed.
Especially when I can get her to cover a shift as payback.
Never mind that she owes me for the surprise-party-for-Quadri incident of last year.
So, yes, fine. I will push the bike. I will drop it off, and I will then walk my determined, slightly bruised ego to the print shop like the capable adult I occasionally pretend to be.
Because nothing, nothing, is going to derail me over something as small as a broken chain.
I pause mid-step as the bike gives another pathetic little crunch.
“Okay, slightly derailed,” I amend. “But not defeated.”
Headline revision.
LOCAL WOMAN REFUSES TO BE STOPPED BY MINOR MECHANICAL FAILURE, CONTINUES JOURNEY WITH QUESTIONABLE DIGNITY.
I lift my chin a little, grip tightening on the handlebars, and keep walking.
The back lot comes into view slowly, the familiar stretch of cracked tar and faded parking lines opening up behind the diner.
There’s something comforting about it, so routine and predictable.
I angle the bike toward the side entrance, already planning my next move.
Drop the bike, ignore the betrayal, power walk to the print shop, secure Shelly’s chaos project, return victorious and hold it over Shelly for life. Simple.
I push through the last stretch, the wheel giving one final, dramatic crunch like it’s signing off on its performance for the day.
“Hand over your purse.” The voice cuts through the air, low and rough, like metal dragged over concrete. I freeze. Not in a cute, processing-information way. In a full-body, brain-screeching-to-a-halt kind of way.
I turn slowly, my grip tightening instinctively on the handlebars, and then my brain just… stops cooperating entirely.
Because standing a few feet behind me is a very large, very broad, very clearly not-here-to-chat-about-the-weather figure dressed head-to-toe in black. Boots. Pants. Hoodie. Gloves.
Intimidation level: high.
Threat level: extremely not ideal.
And then there’s the face.
I blink. Once. Twice.
Nope. Still there.
Because from the neck up, it’s a little old lady.
Soft gray curls. Wrinkled skin. A sweet, pinched mouth like she’s about to ask if I’ve eaten enough today.
A full, uncanny, deeply unsettling little old lady face on a body that could absolutely throw me across the parking lot without breaking a sweat.
My brain scrambles to make sense of it and fails spectacularly.
“I’m sorry,” I say slowly, because apparently this is how I die, confused but polite. “Am I being mugged or aggressively invited to tea?”
The figure doesn’t move. Doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t do anything except take one slow step closer.
“Purse,” the voice repeats, just as gruff, just as threatening.
Okay, so this is real. This is actually happening.
I tighten my hold on the bike, my heart kicking hard against my ribs now, adrenaline flooding in just a second too late to be helpful but right on time to make everything feel like it’s under a spotlight.
My eyes flick to the distance between us, then to the back entrance of the diner, then back to… whatever this situation is.
“Look,” I try again, because some people freeze, some people fight. I, however, flap my gums. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but I feel like we could all take a moment, maybe reassess some life choices?—”
He or she takes another step closer. Okay, this is not a negotiation situation.
My fingers curl tighter around the handlebars as my pulse spikes, every instinct suddenly screaming at me that this has gone from mildly bizarre to very, very bad.
He lunges. He because those broad shoulders are definitely not looking female.
“Hey—no—get away from me!”
The words rip out of me before I even fully decide to say them, my voice sharp enough to echo off the wall. My heart slams into overdrive, adrenaline hitting hard and fast, turning everything bright and electric. He grabs my bag, and I grip tighter.
Fight or flight? I think it’s time to choose fight. I drop the bike without thinking and yank my water canteen free in one quick motion. The metal is solid in my grip, familiar in a this-is-now-a-weapon kind of way.