He was thirteen and he had worked for that bike for most of a year, cutting grass, hauling bins, doing whatever the street would pay a kid to do. Roland backed out of his drive without checking and rolled straight over it while it sat in plain view at the edge of our yard, and the frame folded like paper. Owen just stood there. When I walked over expecting an apology, Roland looked at the wreck and told me it had been parked too close to the road, and that it was not his fault if my son left it somewhere it could be hit. Fifteen minutes of that and I walked away before it turned into something worse. I was going to go through his insurer, or small claims if I had to.

Saturday morning Owen came downstairs and told me he had it handled. Then I watched him cross the grass, knock, and pull something out of his pocket.