”“You need me!”“I’ll cope. ”Mulenga smiled. The tip had a drop of oil on it. guarded by a single scarecrow made out of a flapping leather coat stretched over two crossed boards.
Then he pinned the race number to his shorts and strapped the chip to his right shoe, and the new t-shirt ended up tied beneath the seat of his bike. We were immersed now in orange petrochemical haze. When I had gone a hundred metres I stopped, winded, and turned. The tip had a drop of oil on it.
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