When I nod, he throws a leg over his bike and gestures for me to straddle behind him. The seat barely accommodates two, so I’m forced to fit my legs around his. I try to lightly hold on to his arms, but he moves my hands to his waist. “Keep your feet on the pegs—yep, that’s right. Steer clear of the wheel and exhaust. It gets hot. I’ll hold up a hand to signal when I’m stopping. Don’t fight curves. We won’t fall over. Lean on me if it makes it easier. Got it?”

“Have you carried, uh, passengers before?”

“Many,” he says, slipping on a pair of narrow sunglasses that fit like goggles around his eyes. “If you get freaked out, tell me. Try to relax.”

I’ve never ridden on the back of a motorcycle. I don’t even know how to ride a regular old bicycle, for the love of Pete! But it’s too late now. He twists the handle, and we lurch onto the street. I hold on like grim death, hugging him as we speed away from the Quarterdeck Coffeehouse.

The hospital isn’t all that far away. Lucky takes side roads out of the harbor area, avoiding the tourist traffic and picking his way over to the main highway out of town. It’s so unsettling and strange on a bike, surrounded by bigger cars and trucks. It’s as if they all have armor and we’re naked as fools, dangerously exposed to the air and the sun and the thunderous sounds of the road.

We glide over hilly asphalt, and my stomach dips as if I’m on a carnival ride. I loosen my death grip on his torso and give in to the impulse to lean against his back. He’s solid and steady, and the sun warms the leather of his jacket, which is somehow a comforting scent.

We cross a multilane bridge over a river outside of town, and the motorcycle’s tires bump rhythmically over the bridge’s seams as the landscape changes to trees and flat countryside. After a couple of miles, Lucky slows as we round a sharp curve and approach black skid marks that lead off the road.

Was this where the wreck happened? A metal road sign is flattened, but there’s no sign of a car. I wonder if it was hauled away or if this is some other accident. I forgot to ask who she was riding with when she wrecked. Maybe that Vanessa girl from Barcelona.

Everything feels surreal. The skid marks. This bike. The solid feel of Lucky’s body under my arms … similar to the boy I used to know when we were younger, but very different now. Familiar, but strange. I hold on a little more tightly.