It had been raining earlier. The air had that damp feel to it. I was in a train station, or a bus station, and there were a few people waiting for their rides. I was waiting for someone who worked there, maybe a conductor. I had sent him to retrieve something from storage for me and I was worried that I might've  given him the wrong combination. I wasn't sure about it because it was such a long time ago. But the man came back with the bag. It was a dark green duffel bag of some kind. It was dusty. I had left it there a long time ago, and I think I did it without anyone's permission, like I just chained it to a post or something and hoped no one would notice it was there.   

I opened the bag and there was a neatly packed bag inside. It contained a disassembled portable bike. It was for emergencies and quite compact. I knelt down and started putting it together. It looked strange. It had red pedals that seemed too short and stubby and impractical, and a handle bar that seemed unwieldy. I didn't see any wheels. But I was glad for it. I didn't have to wait with the others for the  next bus which I didn't think wasn't coming. I was sure they'd already missed the last one.    

And I was off.    

Somewhere along the way the bike became a VW bug. It was old, old enough for the exterior paint to become a dull  and nonreflective orange.    

I was driving down the freeway and nearing an overpass when the engine sputtered and I lost power. I'd run out of gas. I got out of the car and looked around for a gas station. I wondered if I should just carry the car to the station (it was very light) or if I should just leave it there while I get a can of gas.