Wild Awake

back away to get the whole picture. Which I do. Rapidly.
    I’m guessing he’s Denny’s age, maybe a little younger. He’s wearing a black T-shirt and black pants ripped off at the knees, and a stud belt circa 1999. He has a broad, pale face, spiky black hair, and brown eyes. His wallet is attached to his belt loop by a chain, and his industrial-strength arms are sleeved with tattoos.
    So very not the type of guy whose spare tube I want in my tire.
    “No thanks,” I say.
    I keep walking. Now that I know someone’s watching me, I get all clumsy. When I yank my bike to the right to avoid what looks like a pile of human feces, the handlebars buckle in toward the frame, and one of the pedals scratches my shin. I feel like kicking my stupid bike. Stop it. I’m just trying to get us home .
    The number 17 bus blows past, its weird fluorescent lighting making the passengers inside look like items in a vending machine. I can see a bus stop up ahead on the corner, so I grab my bike by the handlebars and run for it. The bus slows down, and I’m so relieved I start mentally composing the grateful speech I’m going to give the bus driver. Something that will flatter his or her heroic nature while playing down the fact that I don’t have my bus pass or $2.25 in exact change.
    The light on the corner turns green, and the bus roars on with an insulting discharge of exhaust. I stop, panting, dizzy with disbelief.
    That’s when I reconsider Homefry’s offer to fix my tire.
    No, “reconsider” implies careful deliberation.
    That’s when I say screw it and turn my bike around. I swagger down the sidewalk, trying to look like that whole chasing-a-bus thing was just something I did to be ironic.
    “Hey,” I say, wheeling my bike to a halt in front of him.
    He’s looking down at the pavement, squashing his cigarette with a skate shoe. I decide to be brave. At least the guy’s close to my age. If he turns out to be a mofo, I’ll just whip out my imaginary pepper spray and blast him to smithereens.
    “I changed my mind about the tire. If the offer still stands.”
    When he looks up, I fix him with my best don’t-mess-with-me stare. I run through a quick mental checklist: not drunk, not homeless, not obviously a crackhead . Even with the stud belt, that puts him head and shoulders above pretty much everyone else within a twelve-block radius of where we’re standing. His brown eyes flicker over my bike before looking at me. He nods his chin toward the door of the venue.
    “You wanna hear the set first?”
    I shake my head. “I don’t have ID.”
    “It’s all-ages.”
    “No thanks. I need to get home.”
    He glances into the venue, and I can tell he’s weighing his desire to hear more screamo with his desire to deal with and possibly rape-murder me.
    I decide to cut my losses. “You know what? It’s cool, I’ll just walk.”
    He turns his eyes back to me, his expression still curiously flat. I’m starting to wonder if maybe he is on drugs, one of those evil downers that steals your soul.
    “Nah. Let’s go.”
    I waver. “You sure?”
    “Yeah. I’m just a block away.”
    I glance down the street. On the one hand: stud belt. On the other hand: trudging all the way back home with my stupid busted bike.
    Well, if it comes down to it, I’m pretty sure I could out-run him.
    I nod. “Okay.”
    “It’s this way.”
    He starts walking, and I lope along next to him, wheeling the bike between us. He doesn’t talk, so I fill the heavy silence with charming banter.
    “What band was that?”
    “Pax Satanica.”
    “You into metal?”
    “Not really.”
    I wonder why he offered to fix my tire if he’s just going to be surly and monosyllabic. Maybe he’s not used to talking to people. Maybe he’s on a bad trip and I look like some kind of bicycle-wielding demon.
    Either way, I shut up.
    We turn onto a residential street lined with old wooden houses with rotting porches and bars on the basement windows, the kind of neighborhood that used to be dignified but now feels beleaguered, like a scuffed antique nightstand at the Salvation Army.
    “I’m Kiri.”
    “Skunk.”
    That shuts me up again.
    We stop in front of a white stucco house with a drooping pink roof and sagging white gutters, like a wedding cake left out in the rain. There’s a little lawn in front of it, bordered by a dilapidated fence that comes up to my waist. Skunk lifts the metal latch on the gate, and I follow him through. There’s a flower bed