Orange rays of light shine against the handles of his bike. Leaves fall around him, some simply resting on the path after a long day of hanging, and he bikes as they decorate themselves on his clothes.

The streets are barren of people and cars, and there are rows of houses that have begun to collect webs and dust. There are no crickets or owls to accompany the moon’s light, and the trees grow still as he passes.

It is the boy’s birthday today. Eleven years of age. He is nearly a man, he thinks. It is why, today, he rides with his friend who sits on the bike beside his. Though the boy, of course, must help him—it is why his hand holds and guides the bike’s handle while the other holds his own.

“I’m gonna take a break, Johnny,” the boy says. He slowly removes himself from his bike, making sure his hands never leave the handles of each.

When he is no longer sitting on the bike, he drops it and gathers both hands to the handles of Johnny’s bike and guides it to the tree that sits only a few feet ahead.

He gently leans the bike against it and sits down beside it.

When his eyes begin to feel heavy, and he feels the bark of the tree kiss his neck, he jolts, catching sight of the pristine, untouched leather of Johnny’s bike. He begins to hear old, scared whispers in his head, and so he rises, not caring for the dirt on his pants, and runs to his bike to continue his journey.

He reminds himself that Johnny will be there tomorrow, waiting beside the tree, with the whispers of the boy who has held many things in his hands and has lost them all.