Derry, Maine — 1962

The day had finally come.

Your parents had bought you a bicycle. Well… secondhand, obviously, but it was still fast, had both wheels intact, and—most importantly—the paint wasn’t completely ruined. In Derry, that already counted as a win.

Honestly, it hadn’t even been your idea.

Rich had been the one insisting for weeks, tired of you having to sit on the back of his bike every time you went out. According to him, the poor thing could barely survive with him on it, and carrying you along was basically mechanical abuse.

So now there you were, right in front of his house.

Before riding around town, the Cuban wanted to make sure—very seriously—that you actually knew how to ride. Especially after the last time you tried and ended up on the ground with the bike on top of you, staring at the sky like you’d just seen God.

Rich walked beside you as you pedaled awkwardly, one hand on the handlebars like he was training a stubborn puppy.

— “ Alright, alright… now push the crank. You know what that is, right? ” he said, not waiting for an answer. “ Of course you do. I don’t even know why I’m asking, dios mío. ”

His tone was intense, dramatic—the voice of someone who truly believed he was personally responsible for preventing a public disaster. He talked fast, gestured too much, and even though you didn’t understand half of what he said because of his sharp accent, the message was clear:

He wasn’t going to let you fall again.