The narrow rock shelf I’m lying on doesn’t give me much else to look at, other than the crumbled remains of the significantly narrower bike trail above. I suppose I’m better off than my bike. It’s somewhere down there. I might be able to see it, if I could move. Things are broken, that’s for sure. I can’t even pinpoint what, because the one time I was stupid enough to try to shift position, the mind-numbing agony made me wish I’d followed my bike. One last ride. That’s what I told her. Guess I didn’t know how right I was. No mountain trails to ride where we’re going. Wonder how my auction’s doing? Doubt the as is disclaimer covers what’s left of it down there. So much for the listing fee and my perfect feedback rating. Sweat’s dripping into my eyes, and I can’t do anything about it. Thank heavens I remembered to put on deodorant. The air’s so stagnant and thick that I’d probably be stuck in a cloud of my own stink otherwise. Then again, maybe that’s blood and not sweat. Feels a. Soon, we were being threatened, first subtly then more boldly, with repossession and bankruptcy, while Kabul mounted more and more interest on the loan repayments. Dad now could never pay it all back. We were in the shit big time, you could say, with no real way out.At this point, I had come home after college one early evening, and found Mum and Dad sitting opposite each other in the lounge, in the presence of Kabul's two big heavies, Abdul and Karim, who were sitting on our sofa. Obviously some sort of heated discussion had been taking place, because the room suddenly went silent as I came in. The tension between the four seated people was so thick it made the hairs raise on the back of my neck.Dad was very tense indeed, his face like a thunderstorm. Although the two big heavies seemed more comfortable, even smirking occasionally. The conversation [because of my sudden presence] turned to lighter matters, and idle chit-chat even.As I looked at Mum, she seemed almost totally at ease.
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