The screeching canaries, the yelping Pekinese, the squawking parrots, and the whining cats vied for Elsa’s attention. Henry had given up. He made his escape past the caged guinea pigs, the fishpond, the gate on which hung sacks of stale bread left by thoughtful neighbors, to the shelter. Here, he kept and tended the Giant.
He marveled that the tourist left the bicycle indefinitely in his care. On it he would take flight, defying his age and arousing the awe and envy of his sedentary peers. Passing them as they sat on the benches facing the sea or as they gazed from their porches, he would disappear into the banana fields.
He checked the tires, oiled the chain, put on his bike gear, and took off. He pedaled fast, trying to put another sleepless night behind — of Elsa tearing at the sheets, calling out in the strangled words that even after years of abrupt awakenings, he failed to decipher.
Morning never betrayed the visits of the night. Elsa slipped out of bed into her galoshes and hurried to begin her rounds.
Gripping the bars, Henry arched his body forward. The Giant made him feel free, like the dreams he had as a child. In them he could soar like a falcon, race like a tiger, or swim the depths of the sea without need of air. He could almost feel those gills now as his whole body breathed with the lambency of his being. Beads of sweat tingled his back and dripped down his...
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