When I reached the house, I stopped the motorbike and let the engine tick quietly in the evening air. The sun was hanging low, painting everything in that amber light that made even our ramshackle neighborhood look almost beautiful. Six pm on the dot—three hours past Rachel's new curfew. I could already see her silhouette in the doorway, arms crossed, waiting.
Fuel was becoming more precious than gold these days. Twenty-three liters left in our communal supply, and every trip I took on the Honda was eating into reserves we'd need for the generator when winter hit. I should really start using one of the bicycles from now on, even though it would mean longer trips and sore legs. The motorcycle was faster, more comfortable, and could carry more weight, but comfort was a luxury we couldn't afford much longer.
