He put on his helmet, buckled it, and got on his motorcycle. He kicked the starter and took off, dirt bursting from the spinning rear tire and clattering up against the fender. He tore down the street, breaking the speed limit by ten miles an hour for almost two blocks before he throttled back. But he still kept it a couple of miles over the legal speed limit. Who in heck did Ken think he was by talking to him like that, anyway? Then he thought, darn it, what’s gone wrong with us? How can my own brother be so suspicious of me? Maybe I was jealous about the car, but I’d never do anything that would harm Ken! He might as well have said he’s disowned me. What’s the sense of being a brother if you can’t help out one another sometimes? He drove block after block, not knowing or caring where he was going. Then he thought of Sally—Sally Biemen—and made a right-hand turn at the next intersection.
