Zero Visibility by Georgia Beers

could bike hard, get her heart pumping and her blood racing, the wind in her hair reminding her that nobody could touch her. The speed was her drug. It was what got her adrenaline flowing.
    It was the closest she’d been able to get to skiing in over a decade.
    The lack of biking was making her feel tense, stressed, and sluggish. She’d been walking as much as she could, but she’d left L.A. almost a week ago, and after that long not biking, she was beginning to feel it.
    A tiny bell over the door tinkled her arrival as she walked into Wheels. It was the only bike shop she could find in the little downtown stretch of Lake Henry, so she had to assume it belonged to Cassie’s friend.
    The shop itself was petite inside, but every inch of space available was used. Bikes hung on the walls, were suspended from the ceiling, and filled a rack that lined the left wall. In front of the rack and forming the only two aisles of the store, shelves were crammed with every bit of biking paraphernalia you could think of: helmets, gloves, seats, tire tubes, air pumps, pedal clips, water bottles, chains. The inventory was surprisingly complete for such a small space.
    Behind the counter, a bike was up on a stand, and Emerson could just make out the top of a blonde head. Through a doorway beyond, a couple more bikes, as well as various bike parts strewn on the floor, could be seen.
    “What can I do for you?” came a friendly female voice from the vicinity of the blonde head.
    Emerson walked up and put her forearms on the glass counter top, leaned over a bit. The blonde woman was squatting, cranking a ratchet, and had her back to the counter. The soft, rapid clicking of the tool reminded Emerson of her grandfather, a guy who could fix just about anything and gave it his best shot, even if he failed.
    “Um,” Emerson began. “Cassie Prescott suggested I come see you about renting a bike for a few days.”
    The blonde woman stood—which didn’t change her height all that much, as she couldn’t have been taller than 5’1”—and when she turned to face Emerson, her bright blue eyes flew open wide, causing Emerson to stand up in alarm and quickly glance over her own shoulder. Nobody was there.
    “ Holy shit! Emerson Rosberg. In my shop. I can’t believe it!” The woman held out her hand, and Emerson warily took it. The blonde closed her other hand over Emerson’s and shook it heartily. “I’m Mindy Sullivan. You were so amazing on the slopes. I watched every one of your races. I’m a huge fan.” Suddenly blinking hard, her expression changed, and she lowered her voice. “Oh, my god. I’m so sorry about your mother. I’m such an idiot. Here I am going on and on about me when you’re here under such shitty circumstances. I’m so sorry.”
    It took Emerson a couple seconds to get her bearings after so many words, and when she realized that Mindy had stopped talking and was waiting for a response, she cleared her throat and spoke. “Oh. Um, thanks. I appreciate that.”
    Mindy wiped her hands on a grimy rag and spoke like she and Emerson were old friends. “You haven’t been back to Lake Henry in a while, huh? Is it weird? I mean, the situation notwithstanding.”
    Emerson felt oddly comfortable with Mindy. “Yeah, it is. The last time I was here was about five years ago, and even that was a short visit.”
    “Crappy memories?”
    Emerson blinked at her in surprise and thought, You’re the first person to actually get that . Aloud, she said, “You could say that. Yeah.”
    Elbows on the counter now, chin propped in her hands, Mindy said, “Your mom was a really awesome lady. I liked her. And she talked about you all the time. Said you were working for some medical company in Los Angeles and doing really well for yourself. She was very proud of you.”
    The words had a strange effect on Emerson, and she swallowed down a sudden lump of emotion. As if sensing a change of subject was needed, Mindy stood up straight and