He climbed slowly and uncertainly from bed, thinking that if he moved too quickly it would surely disappear. The floor was cold and sent a shiver through him. And then he had reached it, had not shocked it out of existence, and now stood stroking the black pigskin seat. He longed to ride it, but realized painfully he did not know how; Tucker had tried to teach him several times, but finally had given up because Dewey could not balance or steer or pedal.

Watching it constantly, he dressed as fast as he could and then ran downstairs in search of Tucker. This time he would learn if only he could convince Tucker to attempt once again to teach him.

Tucker was in the back yard with John, his grandfather, removing the dried film of recently applied wax from the side of the car. John, white-haired, the many wrinkles in his face making him almost featureless, was nearly seventy-five. Tucker was doing most of the work, though he was only thirteen and could barely reach the top of the car doors. Dewey stood off and watched them, afraid Tucker would tell him he was a stupid little boy who would never learn to ride a bicycle, but finally he got up the courage to ask.

“Can’t now, Dewey. I got to help Grandpap.” Tucker turned around, holding a piece of white toweling in his right hand, a can of orange polish in his left. Already he looked at people in a way that made it seem he was about to lash out and strike at something, although he might be thinking of something completely different; already his eyes were framed by steel-rimmed spectacles.

“I’ll learn this time. I promise.” He fidgeted under Tucker’s gaze and averted his eyes to the rubber toes of his sneakers.

“Maybe you will, maybe not, but later. I got to help Grandpap.” Tucker turned back to the old man, who was puffing as he made desperate swipes at the top of the car. “Later on.”

Dewey spent most of his birthday on the back steps, the bicycle on its stand beside him, watching Tucker at work. He wondered whether Tucker was envious of his having received a new bicycle. He wished he did not have to bother Tucker at all, wished he could get on the bicycle and discover he was part of a miracle and could ride it away, never looking back, never fearing he would fall or crash.

Tucker did not finish his work until late in the day, when the wind was coming off the Gulf, full of the metallic smell of salt. The sun seemed dark and rode just above the horizon in a chariot of clouds. They would not have much time.