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spectator of her own life, though when I think of her now I wonder if she was simply waiting for us to notice her grief. But we were just children, Anek and I, and when children learn to acknowledge the gravity of their loved ones’ sorrows they’re no longer children.
    â€œThat woman needs help,” Anek said after we washed the dishes that evening.
    â€œShe’s just sad, Anek.”
    â€œListen, kid, I’m sad too, okay? Do you see me walking around like a mute, though? Do you see me sneaking around the house like I’m some fucking ninja?”
    I dropped it. I didn’t feel like talking about the state of things that night, not with Anek. I knew he would get angry if we talked about Pa, if we talked about his death, if we talked about what it was doing to Ma. I never knew what to do with my brother’s anger in those days. I simply and desperately needed his love.
    I think Anek felt bad about the hamburger incident because he started giving me lessons on the motorcycle, an old 350CC Honda our father had ridden to the factory every morning. After Pa died, Ma wanted to sell the bike, but Anek convinced her not to. He told her the bike wasn’t worth much. He claimed it needed too many repairs. But I knew that aside from some superficial damage—chipped paint, an ugly crack in the rear mudguard, rusted-through places in the exhaust pipe—the bike was in fine working condition. Anek wanted the bike for himself. He’d been complaining all year about being the only one among his friends without a bike. We’d spent countless hours at the mall showroom, my brother wandering among the gleaming new bikes while I trailed behindhim absentmindedly. And though I thought then that my brother had lied to my mother out of selfishness, I know now that Pa did not leave us much. That Honda was Anek’s inheritance.
    He’d kick-start it for me—I didn’t have the strength to do it myself—and I’d hop on in front and ride slowly through the neighborhood with Anek behind me.
    â€œI’ll kill you, you little shit. I’ll kill you if you break my bike,” he’d yell when I approached a turn too fast or when I had trouble steadying the handlebars after coming out of one. “I’m gonna nail you to a fucking cross like Jesus-fucking-Christ.”
    My feet barely reached the gear pedal, but I’d learned, within a week, to shift into second by sliding off the seat. I’d accelerate out of first, snap the clutch, slide off the seat just so, then pop the gear into place. We’d putter by the city dump at twenty, twenty-five kilos an hour and some of the dek khaya, the garbage children whose families lived in shanties on the dump, would race alongside us, urging me to go faster, asking Anek if they could ride too.
    I began to understand the way Anek had eyed those showroom bikes. I began to get a taste for speed.
    â€œThat’s as fast as I’m letting you go,” Anek once said when we got home. “Second gear’s good enough for now.”
    â€œBut I can do it, Anek. I can do it.”
    â€œGet taller, kid. Get stronger.”
    â€œC’mon, Anek. Please. Second is so slow. It’s stupid.”
    â€œI’ll tell you what’s stupid, little brother. What’s stupid is you’re eleven years old. What’s stupid is you go into turns like a drunkard. What’s stupid is you can’t even reach the gear pedal. Grow, kid. Give me twenty more centimeters. Then maybe we’ll talk about letting you do third. Maybe.”
    â€œWhy can’t I come?”
    â€œBecause you can’t, that’s why.”
    â€œBut you said last week—”
    â€œI already told you, vomit-boy. I know what I said last week. I said maybe. Which part of that didn’t you understand? I didn’t say, ‘Oh yes! Of course, buddy! I love you so much! You’re my super pal! I’d love to take you out next