My car is sitting in the unopened bay at the far end of the garage, and even though I can’t see it, I can sense it like a cosmic pull. I can almost feel the worn leather interior, like a phantom limb.

“Aiden.” My name rings across the yard as I dump my bike in the grass.

“Hey.” I make my way toward the porch where my dad is coming down the steps in his unofficial summer uniform—khaki shorts, Birkenstocks, and a Riverton t-shirt. My dad owns every t-shirt River Depot sells. This one says SALT-FREE SUMMER FUN with an outline of Lake Michigan, and RIVERTON across the bottom. It’s so weird to live in a place where people buy everything from shot glasses to kid’s slingshots with the town’s name slapped on it. It’s not like we’re New York or Chicago or Paris. I doubt some dude overseas visits the Eiffel Tower and then thinks, “Now all that remains is to see Riverton, Michigan, and I can die happy.” It’s a nice enough place though, if you like the water, which my family does. We’ve spent most of our summer free time outside for as long as I can remember. Canoeing and kayaking; hiking in the dunes along Lake Michigan.

“Help me load up?” Dad nods toward the garage. “It’s good practice for you.”

“Sure.” I toss my backpack onto the porch and make my way to the garage. Dad looks at my wrist, then holds it up in his hand. “What’s this?”

“Bike ride home.” I lightly brush at the dirt still stuck to my arm. “Wiped out.” The blood is starting to dry and it’s going to hurt like a bitch when I finally get a chance to wash it off.

“You’re killing me with this stuff.” Dad laughs softly, but I can tell he’s irritated. “Throw your mom a bone and try to be more careful, okay? I’m tired of hearing about how you’re mangling the body she spent nine long months growing.”

“Limb by limb,” I mutter, and Dad laughs. I look down at my arm, barely bleeding at all but clearly not looking great. Life has been more dangerous lately. “Sorry.”

Dad grabs one end of a canoe and I grab the other. “How’d it go?” he says, as we make our way to his truck. “Martinez give you crap?”

I hoist my end of the metal boat up onto the rack that sits atop the bed of my dad’s truck. “It was fine.” I don’t know what else to say. This isn’t the kind of talk we usually have about baseball. Dream colleges and major league pipe dreams is our usual thing. Stuff that’s less depressing.