A week or so after he came out of the hospital, Wilson pulled up our driveway on a new motorcycle, which he said was a loaner from the dealer.

“Aren’t you supposed to be resting in bed? I thought they said no driving.”

“I’m fine. I’m just going for a little spin. I thought you might like to come.” His voice was muffled from the wires. He took off his helmet and I could see his face again, the shape of it, even though it was still bruised yellow and orange in places.

“How do I know you’re not swilling down your painkillers recreationally and stuff?”

Wilson laughed. “I haven’t taken them, not even medicinally. They’re shit. There’s much better stuff in our medicine cabinet at home.”

I looked at him and tried to raise my eyebrows.

“I swear, I haven’t taken anything at all. Not for days. It’s safe.”

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“To a place with no trees.”

“I don’t think I’d like that.”

“I want you to see it.”

I looked up through the light and leaves at the blue sky and remembered that night on the motorcycle coming back from the tower, how I’d felt.

“Okay,” I said, and picked up the helmet on the back of the bike.

“No, you have to change. Long jeans. And boots if you have them.”

“I only have Wellies.”

“What?”

“You know, like rubber boots they wear in Ireland. My dad always brought them back for us.”

“Okay, those and jeans and bring a light jacket.”

I wore a white T-shirt, a green corduroy jacket, jeans, and black Wellies. I had started wearing earrings after my haircut, and I had big silver hoops in, a bit Belinda Carlisle, even though I wasn’t a Go-Go’s fan. I’d put on mascara and eyeliner, too. Marie said it was a new look, edgier than my long, straight Crystal Gayle hair, and that it suited me. I hadn’t gone anywhere with it yet, just around the house. But standing back outside by Wilson’s bike, I felt more grown-up, comfortable with my ridiculous boots and short hair, someone with my own world inside me.

I forgot when I got on the back of the bike that Wilson was injured, and I held on to his sides. I felt the jolt of pain go through him, how he buckled.

“No,” he said, “lower,” so I held his hips instead, and by the time we were out on Route 23 I had my fingers hooked through the loops of his jeans and trusted myself not to fall.