Between the narrow set headlights Marisa could make out a distinctive grill. Two gangly youths clambored out of the Jeep, making slightly more dramatic jumps to the pavement than absolutely necessary. They approached the bike, and she slid around the other side of the boulder to dart behind the rumbling off road vehicle.

Just as she was about to resolve the moral dilemma of robbing innocent bystanders at gunpoint, inspiration struck. Shotgun stowed, she retrieved the full gas can conveniently mounted in the back and strolled nonchallantly towards her bike and the youths’ backs.

The slightly less gangly one pondered aloud, “Wonder whose bike it is.”

“S’my bike. Had to get gas,” Marisa snorted, causing both boys to jump.

Completely failing to recognize his own gas can the driver asked, “You left it in the road?”

“Hmph,” she retorted while righting the bike, “Some jerk must of moved it.”

Eyeing her curves and thinking adolescently, he asked, “You, um, need any help?”

“I got it, sport, but thanks.”