Abby’s my daughter, 21 years of love and frustration on both our parts. She recently got a job
(yeah, Hallelujah) at a 7-Eleven a few kilometers from home. An easily accessible destination that doesn’t require 3 buses each way like her journey to UFV or a ride from either me or her grandma like the marathon drive to her one-day job sorting recycling in the boonies of Abbotsford.
Her shift is from 11pm to 7am.
She has a bike with lights and a bright reflective vest and it’s downhill going to work in the dark and uphill coming home in the light. So far, so independently good. Until her bike was stolen the other night from inside a six foot high metal enclosure with spikes on the top.
She came home from her shift via taxi, crying and fed up. She informed the police who started a file. We borrowed a bike from a friend, bought more lights and a U-lock. And her bosses let her keep it in the store now.
Last night a street person came in to the store looking for “the chick who had her bike stolen.” This guy thought he knew where it was and disappeared only to return a while later with Ab’s bike. He was rewarded with hugs from my daughter and a free coffee. And Abby’s riding high this morning and her Karma cup is full.