Every time we drove past the sporting-goods store on Route 9, Evan turned toward the window. He knew the bike’s model, gears, matte-black frame, orange lettering, and even its price. But he never asked me to buy it. After his father, Marcus, died suddenly three years earlier, Evan had become strangely responsible. At thirteen, he insisted on working Saturdays at Sal’s diner, washing dishes for sixty dollars a week. He told me he was saving every paycheck for that bicycle. Months passed, yet he never bought it. When I asked how much he had saved, he always smiled and said, “Almost there.”
Then one Saturday, Evan came home late, covered in mud, with a ripped jacket and a scrape on his face. He claimed he had fallen near the creek. I knew he was hiding something. Two days later, Sal called me and asked if I knew what Evan did with every paycheck. Before I could answer, I heard Evan shouting desperately in the background. “Please, Sal! Don’t tell my mom!”
