Memory Boy by Will Weaver Read Free Book Online

moving,” my father said, looking up at the sky. The light was grayer now, and the air felt cooler. I looked over my shoulder and saw white, round faces staring at us through the windows of McDonald’s. The truck convoy guard stood motionless as we passed. I could feel his eyeballs moving sideways behind his mirrors.
    Back at the pine plantation I took some time to get the chain back on and inspect the running gear. I didn’t like the way the pumice had worn down the teeth on the main sprocket. The sharp points were rounded off a full eighth inch. I considered oiling the chain but decided against it; the oil was picking up grit, and the grit was grinding down the metal points. I had two spare chains and a spare sprocket, but still, the amount of wear worried me.
    â€œEverything okay, motorhead?” Sarah asked. It was her way of apologizing for being occasionally pathetic. There was a chance she might turn into a decent teenager someday.
    â€œTen four. We’re good to go.” I hoisted the mainmast and locked it in place.
    â€œMaybe in a previous life you were a trucker,” Sarah said.
    â€œOr a sailor,” my father said.
    â€œMechanic, I think,” my mother added.
    It was their way of thanking me, and under my dust mask I smiled.
    â€œThe wind is switching to the northwest,” my father said. “Cold front coming in.” My father knew his weather; that always impressed me.
    â€œWhich means?” my mother said. After stashing the vest, she was back to her regular slim shape.
    â€œJust like sailing. Means we may have to hunker in for a while somewhere and wait it out,” he said.
    â€œBut not here,” Sarah answered, looking over her shoulder toward the McDonald’s. “It’s way too creepy.”
    â€œUp the road a ways. The Mississippi should be just ahead,” I said.
    We pedaled briskly past the exit ramp and didn’t look back. My father tried to tack left and right against the wind, but the freeway was not wide enough to make the angling effective. Pedaling was harder and harder.
    â€œIt feels like we’re going uphill,” Sarah panted.
    â€œWe are, slightly,” I said. “We’re following the river, which flows south. In fact there’s almost five hundred feet of elevation drop from the headwaters to Minneapolis.”
    â€œAsk Mr. Science,” Sarah said.
    â€œHey, I’ve done my homework—what have you done?”
    â€œChildren, children,” my mother said.
    â€œIt’s the syrup,” my father said to her. “The post-McDonald’s sugar burst, remember?” He looked at her.
    â€œAll too well!” she said. I could tell that she was smiling underneath her dust mask.
    A couple miles north of the interchange, where the highway angles northwest, the wind turned full against us.
    â€œLet’s pull in up ahead, by the river,” I called.
    Nobody argued. When we stopped, I lowered her mast, and then we rolled the Princess off the road and carefully down by the bridge and the river. We lay on the dusty, grassy slope and got our breath. Above us, swallows fluttered and dipped through the bridge supports, annoyed at our presence. They had little mud nests tucked up under the massive concrete forms.
    â€œSo, here we are,” Sarah began.
    â€œGood progress for day one,” I said.
    Nobody said anything.
    â€œHow long we gonna be here?” Sarah said, looking up at the dark concrete roof.
    â€œFor a while. Until the wind shifts,” I said.
    â€œSo what do we do while we’re here?” Sarah asked.
    â€œWhatever,” I said.
    My father lay fully back and closed his eyes. Soon my parents were dozing and Sarah was reading. I checked the map. We were way more than halfway: at least ninety miles away from home, and fifty or less miles to go.
    Birch Bay, that was our name for it. A log cabin on Gull Lake. It had belonged to my grandparents, whom I never knew, and