"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.
Later, I read in some book that this fear was just a leftover from our ancient animal instincts—back when survival meant fending off wild beasts or rival tribes. That explanation actually comforted me so much that, over time, I not only made peace with the dark but even became one of those very same barhoppers stumbling home at dawn.
I pulled out a cigarette from the pack I’d discreetly swiped from the hallway shelf (likely belonging to the kid’s grandfather). Lighting up, I sat down on the porch steps, relieved I didn’t impale myself on a splinter. A cloud of exhaled smoke hung in the air, and without thinking, I inhaled it back. Cue a coughing fit. These cigarettes were brutal, way stronger than I’d expected. Wincing, I stubbed it out on the railing and flicked the butt into the dirt.
What’s even the appeal of these things?
I turned my gaze upward. It was probably around 4 a.m.—still dark enough for a few stubborn stars to linger, but dawn was already bleeding into the edges of the sky.
