Torched Read Online Free

edge of an ornately patterned sweater caught my eye. But when I pulled it from the rack, the wool felt too thick. The whole thing was too small to fit anyone but a little kid.
    “Somebody forgot to check the temperature on the wash cycle.” I held the shrunken sweater out to Marijean, who teetered up to me on a giant pair of go-go boots. Even with six-inch platforms she was just barely eye-to-eye with me.
    “The pattern is cool, though.” She fingered it, then nearly lost her balance and grabbed onto me. “You could run it through the washer again, put it in the dryer on high and make it into felt for appliqués.”
    “Yeah,” I said slowly, “I’ve got a black sweater I could put them on. It’s kind of low-cut, though.”
    “And that’s a problem?” Marijean asked.
    I thought of Coyote again and smiled. “No, I guess it really isn’t.”

CHAPTER THREE
    A bell tinkled over my head as I pushed open the door to the Multnomah Bicycle Shop. I didn’t want to look too eager, so after consulting with Marijean, I had decided to wait until late Saturday afternoon before I stopped by.
    I had lasted until 11:17 A.M.
    At first I didn’t see him, just an older guy sitting at a battered desk and looking through a parts catalog. Part of me was almost relieved. Now I wouldn’t have to find out how Coyote felt about me. But then I spotted him in the back of the room. He was working on a bike that had been flipped upside down on top of a long, scarred table. His hands were covered with grease, his face intent as his long fingers followed a kinked chain. Above him, a couple dozen bikes hung from the high ceiling.
    When he saw me, his face smoothed out into a smile. “Hey, George, is it okay if I take a break?” he asked.
    The other man grinned. “Sure, Ethan.”
    Ethan? It was strange to think that Coyote had another name. A real name. It didn’t seem to fit him as well as Coyote did.
    “A loooong break?” Coyote drew out the word. I looked down at the toes of my clogs.
    George only laughed. While Coyote hung up his apron and washed his hands in the sink, I wondered how many girls had stood here before me. He dried his hands, grabbed a mug from a shelf over the sink, lifted up the hinged counter and walked out to join me.
    “That’s a cool sweater,” he said.
    I wore the low-cut sweater Marijean had suggested, only now it had cutout paisley shapes from the shrunken sweater I had bought at Zombie. I couldn’t tell if Coyote was looking at the sweater or the V-neck. I was just glad that he was looking. “Thanks. I made it. I like to take things I find and make them useful again.”
    “I like it,” he said as we walked down the street. “It’s different.”
    “Speaking of different, it was kind of weird to hear him call you Ethan. I guess you seem more like a Coyote. At least to me. Once I saw a real coyote.” As the words kept tumbling out of my mouth, I realized how stupid I sounded. I ordered myself to stop talking, but instead I kept babbling. “It was early in the morning and I was running by Gabriel Park. It’s strange to think they can live in the middle of a city.”
    Coyote made a face. “Too bad we’ve forced so many animals to make that choice, adapt to us or die.” His words came easily. He probably had had lots of different girlfriends. Including the girl with the red dreads.
    We waited for a TriMet bus to pass, then crossed the street. “I took my MEDic name in honor of a coyote I saw a couple of years ago, in the Portland airport parking lot,” Coyote continued. “We had just come back from Hawaii, and it was, like, three in the morning. At first, I thought it was a dog that had been hurt, you know, because of the way it ran.” Coyote demonstrated, loping ahead a few steps. He waited for me to catch up. “Then I realized it was a coyote. I stuck my head out the window and howled at it.” He grinned at the memory. “My dad didn’t much like that.”
    “What’s your dad