Thirty – Three“Oh, God! Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, oh, God!”
Erin threw her replacement cruiser into Park. She hustled out and around the busted front grill to find Rickie Savage knocked on his rear, on a bed of shattered glass and broken plastic, in the street. He was dazed and crying in pain and fear. “Are you all right?”
“My bike.”
“Don't worry about your bike. Are you all right?”
“My bike!” he wailed.
She spotted his pride and joy, the bicycle that carried the child-man from one end of the city to the other, lying twisted and ignobly thrown over the curb, on the grass eight feet away.
“It's right there. Don't worry, honey.”
“I'm not honey. I'm Richard Savage the third. People call me Rickie.”
“Of course they do. I'm sorry, Rickie. I didn't mean to speak to you as if you were a
