He had every intention of jumping over the bike. But he misjudged the takeoff spot and his ankle buckled even before he got in the air. The pedal gouged his soft throat just under the jawbone and went deep. 45 years later he still remembers the sunlight and hands reaching for him to keep the blood in; the cold blue bathroom of chrome and porcelain where his mother told his father that it was deep and they would have to go to the hospital; the gurney-view of the masked doctor who said it would hurt like a big mosquito bite but it would be better after that; the kids at the ball game who pointed at the stitches he was sure would make him into Frankenstein forever; and then, eventually, the voice of a lover asking him in the dark, "What is that?"