Paul puts one arm behind his back.

– C’mon, man, one handed and upside down! You gotta be able to kick my ass.

George rubs the cement over the puncture.

Paul puts his other arm behind him.

– No hands. No hands. It’s never gonna get easier than this, man. C’mon and take a shot. You know you want to. Remember that time I pantsed you on the quad? Here’s your chance to get back at me.

Andy remembers. First day of his freshman year, bad enough that he’d been skipped a year to start high school early, but there was Paul, greeting him by running up and yanking his hand me down bell bottoms to his ankles while the entire student body was crisscrossing the quad on their way to homeroom.

He pictures standing in the middle of that quad with a machine gun in his hands, pulling the trigger and turning in slow circles until he is all alone and it is quiet.

He shakes his head sharply, trying to jar the image loose. He fails.

He takes the cement back from George, caps it and drops it in the kit, chews the inside of his cheek.

Paul swings himself back and forth a few times.

– What’s the matter, spaz? Looks like you’re getting twitchy over there. You gonna freak out and start throwing things again?

George picks up one of the rocks, cups it like a marble and flicks it at Paul, bouncing it off his forehead.

Paul laughs.

– You’re off the hook, Andy, your bro’s fighting your battles again.

George sets the innertube aside, carefully draping it on the frame of his upside down bike. Andy hands him a large piece of patch and a small pair of scissors.

George clips a small square from the patch.

– I ain’t sticking up for the puss, dickhead. I’m just sick of hearing your shit. Our dad’s gonna unload on him tonight and I’m gonna have to listen it.