“Bones, we gotta go!” I said, slamming my feet onto the pedals and taking off. 

“Go where, Lump? Back to Command Central?” He was oblivious about the cop.

Going back home probably wasn’t a good idea, but I didn’t have a half hour to explain that to the big lummox.

“Yes, Bones, back to Command Central. Race you there!” Before I could say “go,” Bones had already started bolting down Ridgewood Avenue and was headed for the intersection of South Maple.

I tried my best to keep up, but the banana seat was killing me. As I spun my pedals as fast as I could, I took a glance over my shoulder. The police officer was running toward a police car that matched the same strange oldness of his uniform. Bones got to the intersection before I did. He must not have noticed the light was red because he barreled straight into the intersection to turn right onto South Maple.

BNNNNNNNNN!!!!!! A bakery truck blared its horn, swerving hard to the left to avoid Bones. The truck careened to the side, barely staying upright on two wheels, and its back door flew open, spraying dozens of white, powdered donuts into the air like a donut machine gun.

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