While the crickets fill the air, I shove my bike deep into a collection of bushes across the street from a motel. It’s unlit, a good distance from the road, and far from the intersection where a turning car might pan its lights and shine across the silver exhaust. If any of my former brothers from Devil’s Right Hand were to somehow look for me in Westwood Valley, I wouldn’t want to broadcast my whereabouts with my bike in plain sight. She’ll stay here for the night, then it’s the road again tomorrow. Keep moving. Can’t stop. Not yet.The night attendant at the motel is an old man, heavy bags beneath his eyes, thin wisp of grey hair draped over his scalp, and his focus directed towards a small, worn book in his lap. He doesn’t bat an eye at me, but when I plant my twenty on the table for one night, he swipes it off with the agility of a child. The things that keep us moving.My room is four off-white walls holding in a shaggy, stained blue carpet, a double mattress, a nightstand, and a small, antique television that I plan on ignoring.
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