| "No, no, no!" he groaned, peering at the utterly useless fuel gauge. "Brenda was right. Again." His partner, Brenda, had a terrifying habit of being right, especially about Baz's "optimistic" interpretations of fuel consumption figures. He'd scoffed at her suggestion of a jerry can, declaring, "The spirit of adventure needs no such shackles!" The shackles, it seemed, were currently made of a distinct lack of petrol. He pulled out his phone. One bar. Then none. "Fantastic," he muttered, kicking a loose rock. The only sounds were the chirping of crickets and the distant, unsettling hoot of an owl that sounded suspiciously like it was laughing at him. Spotting a faint light in the distance, Baz, ever the intrepid explorer (even when pushing a 200kg motorcycle), began the long, ignominious walk. Each step was a testament to his sheer stupidity and Brenda’s unwavering foresight. The Wanderer, usually a symbol of freedom, felt more like a very heavy, very silent judgment. An hour later, soaked in sweat and smelling faintly of desperation, he stumbled into a clearing. There, bathed in the glow of a single flickering lightbulb, was a ramshackle hut. A figure emerged, silhouetted against the dim light, holding what looked suspiciously like a banjo. "Evening, mate," a voice rasped, the banjo's melody suddenly silenced. "Lost your way, or just run out of go-go juice?" Baz just slumped against The Wanderer. He spent the rest of the night sharing lukewarm tea with a surprisingly philosophical banjo-player named Kev, listening to tales of local wildlife and regretting every single one of Brenda's unheeded warnings. He learned that night that the greatest adventure isn't always finding a new path, but sometimes, just finding a petrol station. | 