Page 101 of Roadrunner

“Yes. Eleven,” she said. “And Riley is going to teach him.” She put her hand on my arm. “If he’s going to learn, now is the time. And Riley is the one to do it.”

I looked at her.

“Alex,” she said. “Let him.”

The truck pulled into the driveway. Arthur was out before it stopped moving. He came around to my side of the porch with the barely contained energy of a boy who had been sitting on something wonderful for several hours and could no longer manage it.

“Before you say anything,” he said.

“Arthur—”

“It’s small,” he said. “It’s a beginner bike. Riley said I have to learn on something small first.” He held up both hands. “It’s very responsible.”

I looked at Riley, who was getting out of the truck with the composure of a man who had prepared for the conversation.

“It’s got a speed limiter,” Riley said to no one in particular. “I’ll set it low. He learns the controls first. Balance. Clutch. Brake.” He met my gaze. “He won’t go faster than you can run.”

“I’m not a fast runner,” I said.

“Then he’ll go slow.”

I looked at Arthur.

He looked back at me with the directness that never asked permission. Waiting for the outcome of a decision that had already been made and just needed me to catch up to it.

I pressed my lips together.

“Fine,” I said.

Arthur was already helping Riley with the tie-downs.

They assembled it in the driveway.

Riley explained each step. Arthur listened and assisted and asked questions at appropriate intervals and listened to the answers before asking the next one.

Martina and I sat on the porch and observed.

Riley fitted the helmet on Arthur’s head. Adjusted the strap. Checked it twice. He got on the bike himself first, walked Arthur through the controls in real time. Clutch in the left hand. Throttle in the right. Front brake. Rear brake. He started it, let it idle, let Arthur listen to it.

“Rule one,” Riley said, over the idle. “You respect it. It’s not a toy and it’s not a bicycle. It’ll do exactly what you tell it to, which means if you tell it the wrong thing, it’ll do it.”

“Okay,” Arthur said.

“Rule two. You go exactly as fast as I say you go, exactly as long as I say. That’s not a suggestion.”

“Okay.”

“Rule three.” Riley looked at him for a long moment. “You have fun. Because this is supposed to be fun. If it stops being fun we stop. That’s the whole point of doing it right.”

Arthur nodded slowly, taking each rule with the same gravity he gave everything Riley told him, filing it away in the particular mental drawer he kept for things that mattered.

Then he got off and stood back.

Arthur got on.

He sat there for a moment. Both feet on the ground. His hands on the bars. He looked down at the controls and then up at Riley and Riley said something I couldn’t hear from the porch, and Arthur’s shoulders squared.

He put it in gear.