Under the Saddle

Darkness took the street. Wind biting off the curb. Can't stay exposed on the handlebars. I backed down the stem, claws gripping the top tube, and scrambled toward the saddle. Beneath the molded seat—twin steel rails and two heavy coiled springs. High-grade iron bunker. I wedged my right hook between the spring coils, hauling my frame into the pitch-black alcove under the leather lip. Tightly sheltered. Cold metal on all sides. Through the coil gaps, streetlights glare across the wet asphalt below. Claws locked onto the steel rail. Night shift begins. Sector covered.