Andy sees the gesture and crams his hand in his own pocket, yanking out a cardboard fold of matches too quickly, flipping the pocket inside out and sending matches, loose change, and a small piece of plastic to the ground.

Paul shakes his head.

– Nice going, Andrew.

Hector smiles, but doesn’t say anything.

Andy drops his kickstand and climbs off his bike, snagging his pants cuff on the seat and sending it crashing down.

Paul drops his head.

– Man. No wonder that bike is such a piece of shit.

Andy tilts the bike upright and balances it on the wobbly kickstand.

– Yeah, it’s pretty crappy, man.

Paul leans and scoops the matches from the ground. His free hand stays half tucked in the rear pocket of his faded jeans as he folds one match backward over the matchbook and snaps it alight with his thumb before bringing the flame to the crooked halfsmoke in his lips.

– Heads up.

Still picking up his change, Andy looks up and sees the matchbook arcing easily toward him. He panics, any tossed object an opportunity for embarrassment, and rather than catching it bats it straight up, bobbles it several times, and finally slaps it at the gutter and watches it drop through the steel grate covering the storm drain.

Mid drag, Paul laughs so hard the butt shoots from between his lips and hits Hector in the back of his head. Already giggling, Hector falls apart now, laughing while running fingers over the shellacked crest of his bleached mohawk, making sure it hasn’t been bent out of shape.

Andy laughs, too. Worse things than being clumsy. At least they didn’t catch him picking up the little plastic twenty sided die that fell on the ground along with his change. He squeezes it in his hand, running his thumb over the little triangular facets, picturing an equation that would describe a twenty sided object.