The driver’s-side window was down and the policemen was peering out of it. Clearly, he was on the prowl, and I knew exactly what he was looking for: Us. Me and Bones, the donut-truck criminals.

“We gotta run now, Bones!” I flipped my bike around, but my pedal whacked into the front wheel of the Basket Barge and got stuck in its spokes. A loud, echoing CLANG! from the pedal and wheel colliding split the air. 

Oh no. Slowly, I looked over my shoulder. The policeman’s lights flashed on and the siren wailed. Frantically, I ripped my pedal out of the Barge’s spokes, hopped onto my banana seat, and pedaled furiously down the street. 

I swung a tight right onto Grove Street—I figured it was our best chance at losing the cop—and I ramped up onto the sidewalk. I glanced behind me, Bones was trying to jump onto the sidewalk too, but his rim caught on the edge of the curb. His bike went flying backward and he went flying forward—first over the handlebars, then over a perfectly manicured hedge into a giant pile of mulch. 

I had to go back and help him . . . but it was too late.

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