There's only one thing, or, rather, name that I think of when I'm in trouble: Trusty. My best friend since grade school, we've collaborated on hundreds of different projects. We'd even tried going to college together, but school never really was my cup of tea. I admire her gusto, though, and it's time to call in that favor she owes me for that program I wrote for her last term.
"Boy, this place sure looks different from this perspective," I mutter, climbing atop the cap of an abandoned beer bottle. From there I pull myself even higher, then await my chance.
On a busy day such as this, I don't have to wait long. A giant pair of neon green tennis shoes comes by and I jump. I barely manage to grasp hold of the laces before toppling over the other side. The shoe's owner doesn't seem to notice me and I strap myself down for the ride. The university's downtown and I can only hope I'm going that way.
I'm in luck! The shoes take me straight there. We pause at the Student Union entrance to smoke a cigarette ("What a nice deal," I think to myself, "I'm too small to breathe in all that damn smoke!"), then continue on.
I only dimly remember the university, but the smell tells me all I need to know. I check my watch, partially surprised to see it still there (Where'm I going to get a new battery?) and I note the time: 1:15.
"Hey, Morgan!" Green Shoes shouts.
I stand up, holding onto the pantsleg. The shoes I'm riding take me directly to a table covered in papers and sitting in the middle of it all, is Morgan McAllister, a.k.a. Trusty.
"Hey, Ronda," she greets Green Shoes. "Running late?"
"Yeah, sorry. Let me get some lunch; I'll be right back."
Taking this chance, I jump from Ronda's shoe to Trusty's.
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