There is a wounded bike out there somewhere. It calls to me. I try not to listen. I have too many strays already. They clutter up the cottage in various states of assembly. Some need wheels. Some need gears. Others just need some love and attention. They wait. Wait for me to make them whole again so they can go off and be abused by some new kid somewhere. Muddy sneakers on pristine pedals. Peanut butter stains on the handlebars. The stuff of kid bike dreams. They must wait. A bent and broken bike calls me. Somewhere in the dark.