Jim squinted into the sun. He could make out Jack pedaling so fast that birds threw themselves out of the way, not to land until they had gone south for the winter. Jack whooped and dry leaves danced in the Sportcrest’s wake. In just a few seconds, Jack would pass under the Holland Transit Bridge, a monolith of concrete and steel. A couple of cars were traveling across it up above, but beneath were shadows so deep and dark they made your eyes hurt.

He had to catch up to his brother. When they got home, he wanted it to be as equals, Jack and Jim Sturges, instead of the perennial winner and loser, Victor Power and Doctor X. Jim stood on his pedals and pushed with all of his might. The training wheels protested—SQUEAK, SQUEAK, SQUEAK!—but he kept on cycling his legs, willing them to be longer and stronger.

When he looked up again, Jack was gone.

Jim could see the Sportcrest lying beneath the bridge, silhouetted by the falling sun, its handlebars bent and the front wheel still spinning. With the bridge coming up fast, Jim reversed the direction of his legs and his Schwinn came skidding to a halt a few feet outside the bridge’s shadow. He straddled the center bar and panted, searching for his brother in the blackest corners.

“Jack?”

The Sportcrest’s front wheel kept spinning, as if the ghost of his brother still pedaled.

“Come on, Jack. Don’t be dumb. You’re not going to scare me.”

The only response came from Don and Juan. Echoes twined their sweet harmonies into an eerie wail:

“I stood on this corner, / Waiting for you to come along, / So my heart could feel satisfi-i-i-ied.…”

With muffled firecracker pops, the streetlights next to Jim switched on, one after another, filling the canal with a yellow sodium glow. That meant it was night: there was no more time to fool around.

“If we don’t get home right now, Dad’s gonna ground us for weeks. Jack?”

Jim swallowed, stepped off his bike, gripped his ray gun in his sweaty palm, and walked alongside the bike until he was within the bridge’s darkness. There it was ten degrees cooler, and he shivered. The training wheels turned slower now, but still complained:

SQUEAK. SQUEAK. SQUEAK.

He came upon the Sportcrest. The front wheel was beginning to slow its revolutions. Suddenly, he felt as if that wheel were Jack’s heart, and if it stopped moving, his brother would be gone forever.

Jim peered into fathomless shadow. Ignoring the drip of moisture, the scurry of what might be rats, the thud of car tires passing overhead, and Don and Juan’s death moans, he raised his voice.

“Jack! Come on! Are you hurt? Jack, I’m serious!”

He cringed at how the words reverberated back. The yellow streetlights, the violet skies, the clammy temperature, the mocking echoes of his panic—how had the transformation from dream to nightmare happened so fast? He spun around, looking into one shadow, then another, faster and faster, his chest hitching with sobs, his cheeks burning with fear, when he thought of the one direction he hadn’t yet looked.