The clawing was getting louder. So were the groans.
Neither knew what was on the other side of that door, but they weren’t going to wait and find out.
She gripped the right handle of her dirt bike, revved the engine. Impatient as ever.
He grunted. Didn’t need the reminder, but this back tire wasn’t going to fix itself.
Seconds later the hole was patched. He hopped on behind her, gave a thumbs up. She twisted the throttle, the engine roared. The dirt bike exploded through the flimsy garage door and into the cool autumn evening.
Finally, free at last.
The Weekday One Hundred 