It’s the middle of the day, in the middle of the week. I’m without Henry. His grandparents have him for the day so I can work on a magazine story. I’m walking Cubbie, enjoying a break from my computer. The sun is in my eyes. The pug is especially pokey, stopping to sniff every tree trunk and urine-drenched blade of grass.
I’m plagued by things related to the magazine story, none of which I have any control over. I spot someone in the distance riding so slowly on a bicycle I wonder if they’re pedaling at all or miraculously stationary. The strangeness doesn’t stop there. The cyclist is holding a red balloon, stranger still.
As we get nearer I notice that the cyclist is young, a teenager. He looks like he’s 16, but then again I’m a terrible judge of age since I still think I’m 22. Despite this denial I’m old enough to make these three calls: he’s a kid, he should be in school and he’s up to no good.