She opened it up on the coffee table, dumping out a bike pump, a pocket knife, a water bottle, a box of matches, a coil of rope, a notepad and pen, the bike track map from yesterday, some sandwiches, and a torch. ‘You really think we’re going to need all that?’ I asked, popping some more painkillers into my mouth as she piled everything back into the bag. ‘Doubt it,’ she shrugged, closing the bag again. ‘But we might need some of it.’ Peter showed up about forty-five minutes later, looking like he’d just rolled out of bed. In another surprising display of motherly kindness (maybe she really was starting to make an effort), Mum offered to make lunch for us before we left. ‘Thanks, Mrs Hunter,’ said Peter. ‘That would be –’ ‘We really should be going,’ said Jordan pointedly. ‘Thank you, though.’ Peter sighed. ‘Oh, stop whingeing,’ Jordan muttered as we walked our bikes out into the street. ‘There’s food in my bag if you’re hungry. Have you got the map?’ ‘Right here,’ said Peter, patting the back pocket of his jeans and putting on his best non-whingeing face.
