The Pull Cord

I crept down the porch steps into the tall yard weeds, freezing whenever a dry stalk rustled against my boots. Right against the fence line sat a battered red push mower, its engine deck coated in dust and dried grass. Dangling from the top was a thick rubber T-handle attached to a braided starter cord. Clutching my saw flat against my apron, I let out a low, muffled wheeze and tapped the rubber grip. Nothing moved. I curled my gloved fingers around the handle and gave a cautious tug. Chunk-whirrr. The internal spring ratcheted and snapped back, vibrating right into my palms. I stumbled backward with a startled gasp, watching the cord coil obediently home.