August 16, 1245h

	Barbara stared at the flickering screen in front of her.
 	Accident report.
 	Tim had given them a location.  Bruce had laid rubber hours earlier, 
anticipating this.
 	They would have to wreck the bike.
 	Falling glass would chip the paint.  Slash the seat covers.  Slash the 
tires.  Destroy the headlight.  Slice through Dick.  They'd need blood.
 	He'd lose the bike.  It would skid.
 	Skidding would grind off one side of the bike.  The motor casing would be 
ground away.  Handlebars mangled.  The footpeg on that side would be ripped off.  
Chrome scraped away.  Turn signals destroyed.
 	Skidding would lead to a crash against the concrete road barrier.  The 
mangled handlebars would be crunched inward.  The engine crushed.  Headlight 
ground off.  Chassis crumpled.  The front wheel assembly would crush, give way.  
The whole front wheel would probably detach and roll across the highway.
 	With that image burned in her mind, Barbara put her head in her arms and cried.