GABRIEL HAD MOST OF HIS BIKE. “You're missing a training wheel!” No, he shot back. Hay dos ruedas. And in a burst of juvenile brawn he swung the bike up onto its back tire and counted aloud. Uno, dos. “But the other rueda pequeña–it's gone.” No! he insisted. Tengo dos. All grins, this five-year-old.
Not far from Bike City, where scores of men sat in the dusty shade of tin shacks brooding and fixing their two-wheelers and peddling their wares, Gabriel rode with his little brother and sang the sweet songs of youthful mischief. And sometime later, at the edge of the park, he relieved himself by a tree in the afternoon sun and waved goodbye with his free hand. All grins.
