Free Dead Run by Sean Rodman

Chapter One
    I have no fear.
    I’m tensed and ready, like a coiled spring. I know that the stakes in this race are high. But I am not afraid. I’m totally focused. Nothing exists except the starting signal. And the bike beneath me.
    The light goes green. I hammer down, making powerful sweeps with my pedals, surging forward. The BMW to my left starts to accelerate, but I beat him into the intersection. Then I’m across the street. Dodging around a big green Dumpster. Weaving back away from a city bus.
    In my mind, I’m ahead of the pack at the Olympics. I’m fighting it out with the best cyclists in the world. But it’s all in my head. So far. The truth is that I’m only seventeen, with just a couple of races under my belt.
    It’s a start. I’ve got big plans.
    A delivery truck blocks my lane, so I bunny-hop onto the sidewalk. I pull up in front of Quan’s Groceries, leaning my steel-gray racing bike up against a metal grate. I slap my lock around the bike and the grate, then walk in.
    â€œHey, Sam,” grunts the big guy behind the counter.
    â€œHey, Mr. Lee,” I reply. “Just need some breakfast.”
    â€œAre you in that bike race downtown today?” Mr. Lee asks. Me and my dad are regulars here.
    â€œYeah, the Albion Square Crit. I’m on my way.” I carefully pick out two of the least spotted bananas from the display.
    â€œYou going to win?”
    I come back to the counter. “You can bet money on it,” I say. Mr. Lee chuckles.
    â€œThen the bananas are on the house today. Consider it my big sponsorship for you.”
    I laugh and thank him. Outside, I slide the bananas into the wide pocket at the rear of my jersey. I check my watch—damn, I’m late again. Gotta move it. I’m on the bike and back on the road. Fighting through traffic. Racing.
    Big sponsorship. That would be nice. I’m still in the Junior category. Which means no real money, not like the pros. Mind you, today is a little different. The Albion Crit—short for “criterium”—is a city race, ten laps around a couple of blocks downtown. Like most races, there’s an individual winner as well as a winning team. But in this crit, there are also special prizes. The judges will ring a bell in the middle of the race. That means whoever wins the next lap gets $100. A little extra money would be kind of a big deal right now. Things are pretty tight at home. Dad works the night shift at a warehouse, which barely pays our rent. Mom—she left a couple of years ago.
    My focus snaps back to the street when I see the red brake lights of a taxi flare in front of me. I lean hard, dodging a woman stepping out of the yellow cab. Don’t want to get doored.
    By the time I get to Albion Square, there’s a big crowd waiting at the start line. It’s drizzling a little now, a fine mist that slicks the road. I walk my bike in between the brightly colored rain jackets and umbrellas, looking for my team. There they are—two guys working on their bikes, both my age. The tallest one looks over.
    â€œSam!” Hayden says loudly. “What took you so long?”
    â€œTraffic,” I say.
    â€œWhatever,” Hayden says. He straightens up and looks at me. “It’s always something.” His black hair is plastered to his head with the rain. He’s clearly not in a good mood. “And you didn’t show up for practice last night. What was your excuse for that?”
    â€œNo excuse. I didn’t need the practice. My time is good,” I say. I look him right in the eyes, daring him to take me on. Christ, Hayden’s annoying. His dad owns a bike shop, which means we get free gear. Gear that I can’t afford. But Hayden thinks that also means he’s the coach. We lock tough-guy stares for a minute. Then he breaks it off.
    â€œAll right, this is the plan. It’s Andrew’s turn to take the lead. You and I will cover