I know this place. I’ve been here. With a few changes I might have grown up on this street. The sidewalk breaks under my feet, new fissures pushing toward the storm drains on one side and the sun-browned grass on the other. I stretch my hands and no matter how far they reach, the rolling chain-link fence is a little bit farther, barely restraining the Aranda dog as it jumps and barks at me, making no sound. I remember when that dog was run over, the summer of the bicentennial. Strange that I can’t hear it, strange that the roiling ground makes no noise and neither do the trees swaying in the empty park across the road. The one thing I can hear, coming from somewhere behind me that remains invisible when I turn to look, is the clicking of a bicycle chain, the hum of tires coasting over concrete. But the bike isn’t here, I know that. It’s somewhere safe, wedged in the gap between two corrugated storage sheds, blocks and blocks away, out past the school.
