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climb the hill, and our contest each time was to make it to the top without having to dismount and push. Usually one or both of us had to, but we tried like hell to make it.
    Our competitive spirit remained in place on our return trip as we’d race back down the hill at the end of our ride. The road curved, and our focus was on each other each time, not any possible traffic. I’m here today because there were so few cars on that road most days. Timing, luck, and stupidity. Many kids depend on that cocktail, especially back then before we all became so filled with tragic awareness.
    But on that day our neighbors were moving. And there was this truck, maybe a U - Haul . A box van truck that had one of those old, rusty steel bumpers. About the same height off the ground as the head of a twelve - year - old boy on a bike.
    As we took the hill, Kevvy got a jump on me that day. He took the lead, and I peddled as fast as I could to catch him. I was looking down at the road beneath my madly peddling feet. I always liked how the road looked when speeding above it…the white and shiny parts of the pavement like stars going past. Light speed. I felt the wind in my ears and looked up, certain I was gaining on Kevvy. He was looking back and laughing, confident that his lead was too much as he neared the bottom. Where the truck was parked. I saw it, and saw how quickly he was approaching it.
    So I yelled. I yelled a warning. I could tell that in the wind he couldn’t hear me. He looked more closely at me and tried to understand. Then he turned his face. Just in time to slam into that bumper.
    I remember the scream. I remember the blood. And the pieces of teeth that flowed out from between his lips. Lips that were swelling up so fast it reminded me of the Hulk. I remember helping him to his home, and then the trip to the hospital. He lived and he was okay, but he went through a tough few weeks. And as I think back, I have this pit of guilt. In those last few seconds, if only he’d turned around more quickly. But it was my attempted warning that kept him looking back at me; I was sure of it. Or maybe if I’d looked up more quickly and warned him earlier.
    And now, I think about Suze and me and all the incidents happening to us. There were warnings about what was coming. Plenty. Easy to see that now, but like with Kevvy, I think that had we paid attention, perhaps it could have been worse.
     
    Because I’m not sure the warnings came soon enough to help.

5
    S ometimes there is this annoying tickle in the throat. A noticeable hotness in the breath. And a slight, ragged loss of energy. And in settling down and letting it assemble into reflective thought, the hints that a cold — or worse — is working its way into the system pricks at the mind.
    When that happens, I always try to shut it down. Overwhelm it with determined optimism blanketed in denial. Sometimes the symptoms abate, and I conclude that my system has responded favorably to my force of will. I can go to sleep confident that I’ve piloted my system in accordance with the self - control of my world.
    Then I wake up with a stuffed head and inflamed throat.
    But that doesn’t prevent me from trying again when, months later, the tickle in the throat returns.
    So when a few days passed without any further suspicious incidents related to my newfound buddy in the red SUV, I let the whole mess settle into a dark compartment in my mind so I could focus on the upcoming threats that Kyle Thomas presented. Hastily arranged meetings with my allies on the board and the management team had delayed the meeting Kyle had tried to throw together to start the process that could lead to my ouster. The smaller meetings continued and plugged up my calendar, resulting in later - than - usual evening returns home (though considering Suze’s moods lately, even had I not had anything legitimate keeping me in the office, I’d have probably faked it).
    I was in my third meeting with Chester