Gear Hunting

I rolled my board through the busted side door of the old repair shop, tucking it under my arm once the broken glass got too thick. Dust was dancing in the sunbeams cutting across an old wooden workbench. Right there between a dead car battery and a rusted wrench, I caught a metallic gleam. It was a hefty steel gear, heavy enough to weigh down my denim vest pocket, but smooth along the teeth. I wiped the grease off on an oily rag and set it beside my board. It's solid, cold, and definitely coming with me. Time Town always leaves the best junk behind.