it was her first job and I know she didn’t mean to be twelve years old running house to house the both of us stretching our lungs out for the whole street to hear grown men in a pickup truck mustaches and mullets full of menace pouring themselves from the cab and running at us hungry sweating their laughter loud sirens I remember wondering why no one would come to the doors why can’t they hear us calling she yelled for me to ditch my scooter and move faster I was eight and tripping over my own shoes help us it wasn’t even a scream anymore just a throaty plea hoarse and without hope the fourth door opened and we pushed past a confused woman of sixty or so slammed it shut and sobbed when the men had gone and the sidewalk was busy with the afternoon chores we walked back to the end of the street our legs moving like whispers through the grass my scooter cowering in the bushes on the corner one rim bent and limping I carried it all the way home put it in the garage never touched it again I learned at an early age not to trust a thing with wheels I am built for flight nothing moves like a boy afraid of everything but his own escape