The call came in at 11:45. A restaurant owner locked his keys in the office. Easy job. I was home by 12:30.
But I didn't take the highway back. I turned onto River Road instead, the long way home.
The town pool opened that afternoon. I saw the chain-link fence, the fresh chlorine smell hanging in the air. Empty now, but tomorrow it'll be full of kids.
I passed the bike rack near the park. Her pale blue Schwinn used to sit there every day. She'd tape a soccer schedule to the handlebars.
She lives with her mom now, three towns over. The bike's still in the garage. I don't have the heart to move it.
But I took the bell off. It's on my workbench next to the spare keys and the old padlocks. Every so often I press the thumb tab—just that single cling, bright and small.
It sounds like summer. Like her laugh when she'd race me home. Like the long way, taken on purpose.