In his ten years on the beat, Maz the Junk-Man had never missed his yearly run home – though that might change tonight, he thought grimly, as he drove his perambulating workshop into a fog bank.
Gears, straps, lenses, tool boxes, assorted parts – purchased and scavenged – were piled behind him, and dragged at his forward momentum while the fog reduced trees and farms to ghostly spirits crouching at the edge of his panic.
Mentally he took a quick inventory of the work awaiting him in Dalcuran: to make a glass eye for Uncle North, a replacement finger for little Zen’s mangled right hand; a prosthetic leg for Kedge; a makeshift lung for the town seer, allowing her time to set her affairs in order.
But the floodwaters had been rising all day, and the road to Dalcuran would soon be compromised. In such a fog as this, with flash floods and mudslides waiting farther down the road, it was the thought of all those faces – the wounded, the mangled, the maligned and the dying – that kept Maz pedaling forward, toward a chance of bringing hope to the people who had taken him in when no one else would.