
Thirty Motorcycles Came for Arthur’s Stolen Bicycle. By Sunset, an Entire Town Would Learn Why His Grandfather Had Never Really Left Him.
A work of fiction. The characters and events are invented; any resemblance to real people is coincidental.
Arthur Pendleton was twelve, small for seventh grade, and good at disappearing.
The one thing he could not hide was the candy-apple-red Schwinn he had rebuilt with his grandfather Henry, bolt by bolt, the year before Henry died.
Then a councilman’s son shoved him into the dirt at Miller’s Creek, climbed onto the bike, and rode away laughing.
Nobody was going to do anything about it. Everyone knew that.
Except the tattooed neighbor in the leather vest, who stopped wiping his wrench the moment he heard the words “Henry’s bike” and told Arthur to be outside at seven-thirty the next morning.
By 7:24 the driveway was still empty.
Then the coffee mug on the porch began to tremble.