The street was empty. Stripey rumbled onto the dark road and turned on his painter. Hot white plastic squirted out — but the wind whipped it sideways. WHOOSH. A wobbly loop. Stripey slammed his brakes.
Stripey backed up. He tried again. The wind pushed the plastic into a zigzag. CRUNCH — something hit his bumper.
The cone tumbled from the sidewalk. It bumped Stripey's bumper. 'Hey!' it clattered.
The cone rolled in front of Stripey. 'I can hold the plastic down!' The cone pressed his base against the squiggly line — but the wind lifted him up. 'Whoa!' He tumbled into a puddle.
The cone spun and splashed into a puddle. Stripey let out a long HISS of exhaust. He thought: not good.
Stripey wrapped his hose around the cone. Together they moved slowly — the cone anchoring, Stripey guiding. The wind howled, but the line stayed straight.
Then a huge gust hit. It lifted them both into the air. They floated — one second — then THUMP.
They landed right where the crosswalk met the sidewalk. Stripey unhooked the hose. The line was done.
The cone sat up. His base was muddy. He looked at the line. Then he looked at Stripey.
'Good work, partner,' the cone said. Stripey's headlights dimmed to a soft glow.
The sky turned gold. Sunrise painted the whole street in warm light. The white crosswalk gleamed.
The street was quiet. The crosswalk was perfect. Stripey rested. The cone rested too.