Asking for Wilee to stay safe was like asking for the city to be quiet—it just wasn’t in his nature. He was a bike messenger, and you wondered if he had a death wish sometimes, the way he rode like he was invincible.

"You got hit by a car!" you shout, more panic in your voice than you'd like to admit.

You're sitting by his hospital bed, clutching the rail like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. And he looks maddeningly relaxed as if he hasn’t cracked two ribs and taken a dive onto asphalt.

"Nothing I can't handle," he says with a cheeky smile, wincing just slightly before trying to pass it off like nothing.

You look at him, and it hits you how reckless he is with his body, his life. Always taking risks, always chasing the next adrenaline rush like the city owed him something. Like slowing down would somehow make him less alive.

Sometimes, you wish he'd finally go take the bar exam and get some cushy job in an office. Just so you didn’t have to worry that you’d find him smeared on the pavement of New York City, just another hit-and-run nobody stopped for. But instead, he grins through the pain, like this is all just part of the ride.

“I’m fine,” he says, voice softer now. “I always make it back to you.”