text: He flicked the handlebars to the side to swerve around a pothole, pumping his knees to accelerate once he had straightened out the bicycle. He always liked to ride fast, but tonight Bobby was in a hurry. It probably would have been safer not to go out tonight, he thought. But biking down to the river helped him clear his head, and he was tired of being stuck inside all the time. Tonight, he had seen a turtle near the edge of the water. He had become entranced watching it swim aimlessly in circles for minutes, his eyes going out of focus but not able to look away. It had been a welcome sight, but it kept him there longer than he intended, and now he was in danger of being out after curfew. Living under an authoritarian ruler certainly had its disadvantages. Bobby sped up even faster, the cold wind stinging his throat as he gasped for air. Suddenly a car flying well above the speed limit zoomed past Bobby on his left, the shock almost knocking him over as he swerved again. At this hour, the only cars on the road drove as if they were trying to set the lap record at Daytona. A siren sounded in the distance. As he looked to his left and saw flashing lights, Bobby’s pounding heart skipped a beat. He took a quick right turn and tried to pedal so fast he would be invisible, hoping the cop wasn’t following him. Seconds later, he turned his head back and saw he wasn’t being tailed. But he didn’t slow down. Taking his bicycle to top speed was the only time he ever felt free. The city around him became a blur, the lights blending together like a Van Gogh painting. His hands and his two-wheeled machine were all he could see clearly. He squinted his eyes and a smile crept over his mouth as for a split second he forgot the immense deadline he was racing to beat. The sky was getting darker, close to pitch black, and Bobby remembered he only had a few minutes to get home or his life could be over. A friend of his got stuck out after curfew three weeks ago. Bobby hadn’t seen him since. His headlight began to flicker, and seconds later it was out. He had been meaning to replace it, but he only thought of it at times like this, when he was riding home as the sun went down. Bobby had nothing left to guide him. He was flying blind. The safe thing to do would have been to slow down, he knew, but he didn’t have that kind of time. He would rather crash than risk being caught out after curfew. As if the cruel road had heard his thoughts, suddenly his front tire ran over an unseen object, jerking him forward out of the seat. He was able to land his right foot on the ground to keep himself from falling down, holding the bike by the handlebars as he stumbled forward. He came to a stop, unhurt, but fearful. He looked back and saw he had run over a wooden plank with sharp nails sticking out of it. His thoughts went to the worst, and as he looked back at his bike, they were proven true. He had a flat tire. Luckily for him, he had prepared for a flat, knowing the risk of getting stranded far from home. In his backpack he had a patch kit. Unluckily for him, it would take time. Probably too much time. And this flat was clearly a bad one. The tire already looked visibly deflated just seconds later. He walked his bike into the nearest alley, ducking out of sight and finding a dark spot against the wall. He pulled the kit out of his bag and got to work. He had done this before, but he was still out of breath from the pace he had been pedaling, and his hands shook with the fear that he was too late. He found the leak and rubbed the area around it with a small piece of sandpaper before pulling out the rubber cement. He fumbled with the bottle and the cap fell on the ground, but he didn’t waste the time to grab it. After placing glue around the hole, he put the patch onto it, pressing it down with his two thumbs. He held it there for a few seconds and then pulled his portable pump out of the bag. He placed it around the tire’s air valve and blew into it with his mouth until the tire had inflated back to its normal level. The next part was the worst step, the wait. He would need to make sure he gave the glue enough time to dry so he knew it had worked. He couldn’t risk having to make another pit stop. He tried to take deep breaths to slow his heartbeat, but his nerves overwhelmed him. A light drew his attention back toward the road, but it was just another car speeding home. The seconds felt like hours as he waited for the glue to dry. Eventually, he decided it had been long enough. He squeezed the tire with his hand and it still felt firm. The patch seemed to be working. He got back onto the bike and continued on through the alley to the next side street. He knew a back way that could get him home quicker than his usual route. But the back roads were darker, and he still didn’t have a working headlight. He decided this time he would heed the voice in the back of his head and proceed slowly. It was already past curfew, he knew, so there wasn’t much difference between being out 15 or 20 minutes too late. After gliding around several corners, he was finally back to his neighborhood. Pulling up to his house, he got off his bike and began to walk. But before he could sneak around back, a red-faced woman opened the door in haste. His mother. The tyrant who controlled his life and told him what time he was allowed to stay out. “Bobby! You’re 30 minutes past curfew! I don’t want to hear any excuses. What do you have to say for yourself?” “I’m sorry mom,” he sulked. “Please don’t ground me.