Chapter 6: The Broken Highway
The highway stretched out before us like a cracked gray ribbon disappearing into the shimmering heat of the desert afternoon. The heavy engine of the Panhead hummed between my knees, vibrating straight through my bones as we sped past flat farmland and sparse clusters of wind-bent cedar trees. I held tightly to the leather loops of Jax’s vest, pressing my cheek against his back, feeling the solid, steady rhythm of his breathing.
We had left the diner behind hours ago after Martha packed us two greasy ham-and-cheese sandwiches wrapped in wax paper and a couple of warm sodas from the cooler. We weren't headed back to the garage apartment anymore. Jax had made up his mind while we sat in the corner booth of the diner, staring at the old photograph between bites of food. He had looked at me across the Formica table, his eyes sharp and steady, and said we were riding west toward the valley where Clara had taken shelter after the trailer park shut down.
Around three o’est in the afternoon, the sky changed. A wall of dark, bruised-looking clouds rolled in swiftly from the western mountain range, blotting out the sun and turning the horizon an ominous shade of slate gray. A sharp, icy wind picked up, whipping dust across the asphalt and stinging my bare hands where they gripped Jax's vest.
Up ahead, the engine coughed once, a dry, stuttering sound that didn't belong in the steady rhythm we’d maintained for the last fifty miles.
Jax felt it immediately. He eased off the throttle, his body stiffening as the bike sputtered again, the deep rumble of the exhaust turning into a ragged wheeze. He checked his mirrors, flicked his indicator, and coasted the heavy machine off the shoulder of the highway, steering it down a steep gravel turnout that led toward a dry creek bed shadowed by a cluster of towering cottonwood trees.
The engine died completely just as we rolled to a stop beneath the sprawling, rustling branches.
Jax cut the ignition and threw his leg over the side, landing boots-first in the loose gravel. He pulled off his helmet and tossed it onto the handlebars, immediately dropping to one knee beside the chrome-plated engine casing. He reached out with gloved fingers, feeling along the fuel line and the carburetor, his brow furrowing as he cursed under his breath.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, sliding off the back of the bike and stepping carefully over the sharp rocks.
“Fuel line’s choked up,” Jax muttered, pulling a greasy rag from his back pocket and wiping his hands. “ Carb’s full of bad gas from that station back at the county line. We’re not going another ten miles until I tear this thing down and clean it out.”
He looked up at the sky. Heavy drops of rain began to patter against the broad leaves of the cottonwood trees above us, darkening the dry dust on the ground in sudden, large circles. The storm was coming down fast, and we were five miles from the nearest telephone pole, let alone a mechanic or a motel.
“Is it broken down for good?” I asked, a sudden wave of panic tightening my throat. I couldn't go back to the way things were before—wandering from one bus station bench to the next, waiting for moms who couldn't wake up.
Jax stopped what he was doing. He looked up from the engine, seeing the tight, anxious look on my face. He stood up slowly, wiping grease from his hands onto his jeans, and walked over to me. He crouched down slightly so we were eye-to-eye, the wind whipping his long dark hair across his weathered face.
“Hey,” Jax said, his voice unusually soft, cutting right through the rising roar of the wind in the branches. “Look at me.”
I looked into his hazel eyes—my eyes.
“It’s just a machine,” Jax said firmly. “Parts can be cleaned, bolts can be turned, and engines can be fixed. We’re not stranded. We’ve got gear in the saddlebags, we’ve got shelter right over there under these trees, and we’ve got each other. You hear me?”
May you like
I nodded slowly, the panic receding just as quickly as it had come.
“Good,” Jax said, giving my shoulder a firm, grounding squeeze. “Now help me drag that old canvas tarp out of the right saddlebag. We’re setting up camp for the night.”
