we look over the game,

our pencils scratch paper.

We draw a new class of robots

that can shift their shapes,

adapt to their environment.

Lisa is taking pictures

when Pick mumbles,

I’m sorry I’m so mean to you.

He looks away.

That day, when we were packing,

when you said you didn’t

tell your parents about the bike path?

I got mad because I thought

we would have to hide it forever,

or that you just didn’t trust me enough

because I ran away.

I wanted you to change

so you could stop being so bad to yourself,

but I’m the one who was afraid.

Pick doesn’t look up when he says this.

His eyes focus on a quadrant

of the paper where he draws

a giant metallic foot.

I am quiet too.

I just hated it. I hated them.

Pick’s voice trails back

into the past.

He’s remembering,

but the experience

is lightning

striking now.

He doesn’t wipe his tears,

lets each one spill into his mouth

until they swirl with his words.

With his pencil,

he scratches a crude line

along the center of the boxed page.

We were riding. Just riding.

What happened? Lisa asks.

I forget that she doesn’t know.

He traces the pencil along the line

on the paper. He draws a circle

around Dolan Avenue and an arrow

to the Mill Valley/Sausalito bike path.

His mind overflowing onto the paper,

he talks in pencil

scratches and shaded images.

I concentrate on his drawings,

see it all in my mind.

He draws an X halfway

to Sycamore Avenue and stops.

I should have done more,

but I just kept riding.

I let you down.

I look at him over the table.

I think of jokes

but don’t say them.

His body shakes,

like he might break in half.

It’s okay, I say.

He shifts in his chair, grabs his pencil tight.

He draws stick figures near the X.

It’s not, he says through gritted teeth.

It’s

not okay.

You … Suddenly fierce,

he points the pencil at me, eraser first.

He gets up, one hand in a fist.

I stand up too.

You

should

have

done

more …

You

just SAT THERE,

while they did those things to you.

HOW COULD YOU LET THEM?

how could I let them??

I get up, walk over to him.

In my mind is the rhythm of some speech

I will never give.

I stare straight at him

with sudden courage.

I don’t know why, I say.

I don’t know why I didn’t fight back.

Maybe I should have. But I couldn’t.

I don’t want to fight that way.

Face flushed,

Pick looks at me,

red with anger and tears.

Suddenly he grabs my shoulders

with both hands,

vibrates an inhuman growl,

Why didn’t

I

do anything?

His breath lingers at I.

He’s desperate for an answer