by Hydrargentium

It smelled like mango.

Mason wasn’t all that fond of mangoes. He thought they tasted okay in yoghurt, but fresh, ripe mangoes always smelled faintly of puke to him. And smoothies? He didn’t even like to think about it. It was fine, other people were welcome to them, but mangoes just weren’t his thing.

Yet, it was definitely mangoes coming from the crack. Despite the wind, flying at high speed, he could smell mangoes.

He lifted the football-shaped casing up to his face, turning his back to the wind to provide some shelter, and gave the long, thin line a good sniff.

Yep. Definitely mangoes. Except, not pukey.

Facing forward again, he poured on the speed. In the field below, a farmer looked up at the sonic boom, shielding her eyes against the sun with the peak of her cap to get a better view. Mason just wanted to get this thing to Nevada and get back to his vacation. It was easy to avoid mangoes in Nantucket.

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