George nods.

– Tell him you had the wheel locked to the frame, but not locked up to anything. Someone could have tossed it in the back of a truck. He’ll buy that.

– Whatever. I’m still gonna have to walk everywhere.

A car swings around the corner, a ’78 Firebird T-top, “Another Brick in the Wall Part II” blaring from the stereo.

Paul watches it all the way to the end of the street.

– Wouldn’t have to walk if we had a fucking car.

Andy nods.

– Yeah, that would be sweet.

Paul reaches out and slaps the back of his head.

Andy does nothing, atoning for the imaginary hammer he smashed into Paul’s face.

Hector barrels up the driveway.

– Hey!

He skids to a stop, leaving a streak of black rubber on the pavement, his front wheel scrunching into the rock pile.

– Hey, Andy, what’s up with your bike? I just saw one of the Arroyos riding it around.

They all look at him.

Paul hawks and spits.

– Which one?

– Timo.

He sticks a finger in Hector’s face.

– You fucking sure?

Hector knocks the finger away.

– Yeah, asshole, I’m fucking sure. We may all look alike to you, but I can tell my Mexicans apart.

Paul picks up a rock.

– Fucking Timo.

He heaves the rock, sending it far down the street in the same direction as the Firebird.

– Sweet.

It couldn’t be better. Sweet enough it was one of the Arroyos that stole Andy’s bike, better yet that it was Timo.

That shit that happened when they played city league soccer, the year they were under twelves, Paul still thinks about that shit. Just about every day.