Paul has picked out two matching chrome pedals. He drops them back in the crate.

– Black and white movies give me a migraine.

Hector whips his piece of chain back and forth a couple times. It’s a little rusty. He wraps it around his hand, over the scratches and thin white scars on the backs of his fingers that come from fighting with chain. He flexes his encased fist.

He walks over to Paul.

– Everything gives you headaches.

– Fuck you, they’re not headaches, they’re migraines.

Hector punches the wall, cracking the plaster and leaving a series of deep parallel tracks.

– Whatever, your head’s always hurtin’ and you’re always whinin’ about it.

– You ever had one you’d know the fuckin’ diff.

He turns and jabs Hector’s forehead with the tip of his index finger.

– And I don’t whine, fag.

Hector slaps the finger away and takes a boxing stance.

– Whiner.

Paul slaps at his head.

– Fuck you, puss.

They spar for a minute, Hector jabbing, Paul letting him hit his shoulders and chest and reaching out to deliver open hand slaps to the side of Hector’s head.

Hector goes up on his tiptoes.

– Oh meee, I got a miiigrane. It hurts sooo bad.

– Fuck you, mama’s boy.

– Hey.

They look as George whips the tarp away and reveals the final product of the Arroyos’ chop shop.

Resting on top of several flattened cardboard boxes are two custom BMXers built around Mongoose frames. The bikes are flipped upside down, balanced on their handlebars and seats, the brake cables unattached but the other hardware in place.

Hector squats next to the electric blue one and runs a finger over the graffiti lettering that runs down the crotchbar.

– Oh, man, this is trick.