Brent carried the fixed-up television under his arm and often glanced up at grey sky. A frisky wind whipped through his short red hair. He could already feel moisture on his skin and now he could see damp fingerprint smudges under where he clutched the television. He ran because if he botched this up he’d pay for it himself. Special promotion didn’t say anything about delivery vans running out of gas.
Now it was a race against the clouds. A red pickup truck came by and he flagged it down. When he told the toothless driver his dilemma he agreed to help but there wasn’t enough room for Brent to come too. Brent thought he’d no choice, so he loaded the television and watched the truck speed off.
Minutes later, about when the sun popped out, he realized he hadn’t even begun to tell the driver where to go.