Down the White Line

Found a heavy cast-iron caster wheel resting in the dry chicory beside the road shoulder. Its red polyurethane rim was scuffed matte, but the axle pin was dead straight. I picked it up, rapped the hub twice against a low concrete marker to knock out the packed road silt, and spun the wheel against my thigh. The internal bearings broke free with a tight, muffled purr. Crouched low at the crown of the slope, I lined the wheel dead center over the faded white edge line and gave it a flat shove. It tracked twenty paces down the asphalt without drifting an inch, carving clean across the aggregate before settling in the gravel ditch. Picked it up. Solid weight.