He stood leaning against a wall across from shops that sold bicycles and sportswear. People hurried past him, but not as many as there had been at sunset. He had wandered these alleys after dusk, trying to forget his promise to his brother about calling his mother, yet he couldn't.
He pulled his phone from his pocket and stared at it. Blue numbers on the screen read nine-oh-eight.
Maybe it's late,
he thought, though he knew it wasn't; his mother never slept before ten-thirty.
He lifted his gaze from the screen toward the bike shop. The bald man inside smiled at him and pointed to a poster beside him—an orange board with photos of riders tearing through nature, the word
Adventure
printed above them. Yonan shook his head from side to side to say he wasn't in the mood for bikes or for bike sellers. The man raised his eyebrows, pursed his lips, and went back inside. Good—he had read Yonan's mood and didn't push.
Yonan looked at his phone again. He tapped the dialer, then Contacts. Only two numbers appeared: one labeled
Frank
and the other
Mother
. Even though he had changed phones and numbers more than once, the moment he received a new SIM he saved his mother's number—as if it were a lucky charm that kept him from hating himself. It worked in the early days, but lately remembering that number had become a ticket to let his conscience rip him apart. One glance at the field with
Mother
in it, and his heart cracked in every direction. What had she done to deserve him cutting her off like this? If his father was the one who burned his paintings, what fault was hers? He knew she would never waste a chance to hear his voice, yet here he was—about to dodge a call with no excuse. Maybe he had forgotten she was the one who bought his brushes and paints. Yet here he was again—choosing to color her days with glossy black and a lot of dull black.
He kept staring at the call icon under his mother's name. Maybe his father had been right when he called him a coward and a bastard. If he had the courage that let him stand up to his father, he would have phoned her long ago. Maybe even that courage wouldn't be enough now. He drew a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh, as if he could expel a sea of tightness from his chest.
He opened his eyes to find a young man about his age wearing an orange outfit with a bicycle drawn on it, holding orange flyers with an annoying design—pictures of riders in nature, the word
adventure
stamped across them.
What a nuisance. Again.
"'My dad says I'll never convince the Wall Grouch to join us on a mountain-bike adventure.'"
Yonan turned toward the bald man beside the shop.
"'Yeah, that guy,'" the young man added.
Yonan took the flyer.
Do all fathers have to be awful to their kids?
He looked at the bald man and said:
"Tell your father the Wall Grouch will be the first one there."
The young man lifted his eyebrows, surprised.
"Just like that?"
"Yes. Do I need to buy a bike to join the adventure?"
"You can, sure. Or you can rent one for the marathon. It comes with a helmet and safety gear."
"Alright. Consider it done."
"Good."
The young man backed away a few steps with a smile, then added:
"I'll see you on marathon day, then."
He stopped, stepped back toward Yonan, and pointed at the phone.
"People don't hesitate that hard over calling someone unless it's someone they actually care about."
"Excuse me?"
"Isn't that right? How else would a person think all the time about whether to call or not—unless it's someone they love?"
The young man tapped his forehead a few times, proud of his tender line, then slipped into his father's shop.
Yonan looked at his mother's number again.
loved ones.
He set his trembling thumb over
Mother
, wavering on whether he would actually do it. His thumb decided to spare him, just this once, and made the call for him. He raised the phone to his ear and listened to the ringing: ring... ring... ring. Someone picked up.
"Hello." No one carried that gentle tone but her.
Yonan's tongue knotted, his lungs asked for air. He stammered, silent—so his mother rushed in, asking:
"Yonan, is that really you?"
He took a breath and clutched the phone with both hands.
"Yes. It's me."
Her voice lifted, not in reproach:
"It's really you? At last. Why didn't you call sooner?—no, it's okay. What matters is I get to hear your voice."
He pressed his lips together, holding back the tears pooled on his lashes from running down his cheek. How could she love him like that after everything? If he asked her,
Mom, would you die for me?
she might agree before he finished the question. A tear broke loose and slid along his cheek, telling him he wasn't as hard as he thought. He gripped the phone tighter and said—
"Mom, it's wonderful to hear your voice too."
"What's wrong with your voice, Yonan? Do you have a cold?"
"No, I—"
A man yelled beside his mother:
"What do you think you're doing? I told you not to talk to that wretch! Hang up!"
His mother cried out:
"Let go of my hand—let me speak to him, please."
The connection crackled, tangled with shouting.
"I said hang up!"
"Wait... please, let me—"
And the call cut.
Yonan stopped breathing for a moment and stared at his phone. He raised his hand high to smash it on the ground, but it froze midair, fist crushing the device while his breath sawed through clenched teeth. Something inside his chest felt ready to explode.
This isn't good.
This isn't good.
This isn't good.
"I'll kill him! One punch to his nose and he'll leave us alone." He dragged his hand down and clenched his face hard. "Why won't you leave me alone? Why?!" He pictured the face between his fingers—his father's—and squeezed with everything he had till his teeth almost cracked. "Just get out of my life, man... please, get out."
He ground his teeth and shut his eyes, forcing a harsh breath out, hoping it would dull the bitterness life kept forcing down his throat. Seconds passed. His anger thinned. The sounds of people and traffic around him came back. He opened his eyes and saw, between his fingers, his shoe on an ugly orange flyer—the picture of a cyclist with
Adventure
written above. He let his fist fall from his face and whispered, "Adventure."
⸻
Yonan narrowed his eyes, searching the sky for clouds that could soften the heat, but wherever he looked the sun stared back, leaving his eyelids helpless before its blinding light. Sweat ran through his hair; the helmet did nothing but itch.
What had pushed him into this? Why spend what was left of his money on this nonsense?
I'm an idiot.
He glanced at his silver West End watch, a gift from his brother. Maybe its turn had come too—sell it if he wanted to buy one more month away from home.
What's next—my kidney?
He scanned the riders around him. Some had spent most of their hair turning white with age; the youngest—if he didn't count the ride leader's son—was a woman at the end of her thirties... with a swollen belly.
He tilted his head, sneaking a look at her stomach.
Eight months. Maybe nine.
He pictured them stranded with the other cyclists, forced to listen to a woman scream in labor.
"Please, not today. Don't let it be today," he murmured.
The pregnant woman noticed him. She slipped off her earbuds.
"Sorry?" she said.
"I was saying: Have a great ride."
She smiled her thanks.
"You too."
He turned his face toward the man running the ride to hide his embarrassment and clenched his jaw.
Idiot... she almost heard me.
The bald man in orange motioned them closer, and they gathered around him. After a few minutes of safety droning, everyone mounted up, forming a single line—from the bike-obsessed fool at the very front, all the way down to Yonan and the young man riding at the rear. At least the bald queen ant took her role seriously.
Feet pressed the pedals; at the bald queen's signal, the wheels turned—and the adventure began.
The ground was dry, sometimes damp. Tires and stones kept quarreling. They didn't pass anything without the ride boss dumping a volley of annoying facts as if it were a school trip.
They dropped down a slope, and as soon as they did, the bike bore lifted both hands from his bars, looked to the sky and whooped as if he could fly.
"Isn't the weather beautiful?"
Yonan raised his face and watched a white sky, warm sunlight filtering through a sea of green leaves, falling in a dance across his forehead. A cool gust touched his cheeks and caressed his lowered lashes. He realized his eyes were shut while his bike sped down the hill.
For a moment his mind stopped parsing everything and started enjoying everything—the hush of air, the rustle of leaves, the sound of his chain, as if he were seeing the whole world for the first time..
What a feeling!
Another chain clattered behind him, closing in. He opened his eyes and looked over his shoulder to find the young man drawing alongside.
They rode side by side. The young man kept pace and said:
"What do you think of my dad?"
Yonan glanced at the ride leader far ahead—bald—and said:
"You want the truth?"
"Of course."
"Your father... is a show-off and a jerk."
The young man laughed till he almost lost balance, then recovered with skill, a grin still on his face.
"Name's Sam. And you?"
Yonan watched his front wheel skip over a stone.
"Wall Grouch."
The young man burst out laughing and almost slid again.
"Please, not that! Not Wall Grouch!"
"Yonan," he said, smiling.
"Strange name... no, a special one," the young man said.
He stretched his arm toward Yonan, unafraid of falling at this speed.
"Good to meet you, Yonan."
Yonan pulled his right hand off the grip and shook.
"And how is it so far—the adventure?" Sam asked.
Yonan stared at the riders ahead and drawled, "Old folks, a bald queen ant,
labor
... I'd say it's doing great so far."
Sam exploded with laughter, clutching his belly, until the ones in front glanced back with furrowed brows, then faced forward again as if their retreat had been disturbed.
"Labor..." Sam said, wiping tears of laughter. He clapped a hand over his mouth and stared at the pregnant woman. "Oops... I said that out loud. Hope she didn't hear."
He lowered his hand and looked at Yonan, then whispered:
"'Labor'—a mean way to label that poor woman. At least this adventure would stick in your memory if she really gave birth out here, right?"
"I hope none of that happens."
"Me too."
They kept pedaling. A light mist appeared, then thickened. The mischief slid off Sam's face as he looked ahead.
"His swagger won't last much longer," he said.
Does he mean his father?
Yonan lifted his gaze to the strutting bald head and found the man quiet, like any rider, hunched over his bike—then ordering everyone to pull over.
They stopped beside the ride leader. Yonan hadn't realized how hot his body was until the wind stopped touching him.
Most of them pulled water bottles and drank. Sam's father looked drained, like a man about to break through a front line on a bicycle. He said:
"In a minute we'll enter the hot springs area and pass a river—its biggest spring river—where the temperature approaches boiling."
He wiped his nose and continued:
"The ground gets slick near the river, and the track narrows. No problem if we ride slowly. Please follow my instructions and don't rush. Our buffer from the river's edge will be about two and a half meters at the tightest point."
He looked each rider in the face and added:
"The heat spikes at several bends. Your call whether to continue. No one is forced to push on. If you don't want to, tell me now. There's a nearby hut where you can wait till we return. It's stocked with cut firewood and supplies."
They looked at one another. The pregnant woman looked at Yonan. He tensed.
One of the older men raised a hand.
"I'll wait at the hut."
"Me too," said another.
Yonan glanced at the pregnant woman—
labor
—hoping she would say she'd wait as well. She didn't.
The ride leader showed the elders where the hut was and hurried back. Then he rearranged the order behind him. He put Yonan directly behind, then his son, then the pregnant woman, and so on to the oldest.
He probably wants the rowdy ones close to him, to keep them in check... but is this river really that dangerous?
They mounted and rolled down behind the slow ride leader. The air grew hotter as they descended. Yonan's fingers ached from squeezing the brake lever. The heel of his palm begged for a break from the shaking over stone. He wished he could let the brakes go and fly.
I'd probably hit seventy kilometers an hour.
He looked at Sam's father's back.
Maybe not now.
The fog thickened into a white veil. The bald man might be right—speed was dangerous when a person could only see a few meters ahead.
Heat climbed through Yonan's body. Hot sweat coated his skin.
How long have we been dropping? Four minutes?
He wiped the watch crystal, fogged with vapor. The silver hands pointed to twelve-ten.
A roar rose from the end of the slope, a sound like surf. A shiver ran up his back like current. Something about that river felt bleak.
"What's that sound?" he called to Sam.
"Hell," Sam's father answered from the front.