Shane sat on the curb, his eyes locked on the of his bike. They were jagged and silver, the rubber worn down to a dull grey. To his father, those wheels were "crutches." To Shane, they were the only things keeping him from the unforgiving bite of the asphalt.
"I don't think the balance is right yet," Shane whispered, though his dad couldn't hear him over the clatter of the toolbox. A High-Pitched Buzz and Training WheelsYoung Sh...
The sound was a thin, electric needle stitching its way through the humid July air. It wasn't the cicadas; their rhythmic clicking was just the background track to the Georgia heat. This was different. It was a high-pitched, persistent that seemed to vibrate inside Shane’s own skull. Shane sat on the curb, his eyes locked on the of his bike